MAUD  •  HOWARD  •  PETERSON 


The 

POTTER 
and  The  CLAY 


a  storm!"  he  cried. 

(See  page  90.) 


The 

POTTER  and 
The  CLAY 


A  ROMANCE  of    TODAY 


By 

MAUD   HOWARD 

PETERSON 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
CHARLOTTE  HARDING 


LOTHROP 

PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT, 
j&  1901,  -^ 

By 

LOTHROP 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY. 


ALL     RIGHTS      RESERVED 
ENTERED    AT     o     o     o 

STATIONERS'   HALL 

Published    May  7,  1901. 
6th  Thousand,  June  11,  1901. 
loth  Thousand,  July  19,  1901. 
I3th  Thousand,  Aug.  16,  1901. 


Berwick  &  Smith,  Norwood,  Mm.,  U.S.  A. 


M.    C.    P. 

and 

M.   T.  C. 


WH  OSE  L  1VES 
REVEAL  THE 
POTTER'S  TOUCH 


222^006 

/wA^i/-^  *J  v-f  ^J  \J 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

/T~~V  H  E  comparatively 
•*•  unknown  rendering 
of  the  verse  from  the  Ru- 
baiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
quoted  on  the  succeeding 
page,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
first  edition  of  Fitzgerald's 
translation  of  the  Persian 
poem. 


l&£^j|K&3 

l~J%W&s9; 


I 


m 


OR  in  the  Market-place,  one 
Dusk  of  Day, 


I  watch 'd  the  Potter  thumping  his  wet  clay: 

And  with  its  all-obliterated  Tongue 
It  murmur'd  — '  Gently,  Brother,  gently, 
pray!'" 

From  thi  Rubdiydt. 


PERMISSION  to  use  the  poem, 
"The  Potter's  Wheel,"  which  appears 
on  the  next  page,  was  granted  by  the 
owners  of  the  English  copyright  of 
Browning's  works  through  Messrs. 
Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  London,  and  by 
the  American  publishers  of  Browning, 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
Boston. 


Cfje 
potter's  W\>tt\ 


that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor!  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive 

lies  our  clay,  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  past  gone, 
seize  to-day  !  '  ' 


All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and   God  stand 

sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:   Potter  and 

clay  endure. 


fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 
This    Present,    thou,    forsooth,    would    fain 

arrest; 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try   thee  and   turn  thee  forth,    sufficiently 

impressed. 


F-O—' 

m 


fflSi 


though  the  earlier  grooves, 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner 
stress? 


not  thou  down  but  up! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's 

peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  nccdst 

thou  with  earth's  wheel? 

•5353  QT  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst, 

Did  I  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound  dizzily  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake 

Thy  thirst: 

§>©,  take  and  use  Thy  work: 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past 

the  aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete 

the  same! 

Robert  Browning. 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE 


Page 
21 


BOOK  ONE 

The  clay  takes  shape 


57 


BOOK  TWO 
The  break  in  the  clay 


122 


BOOK  THREE 

The  Potter's  touch 


178 


LIST  of  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  It's  a  storm  /  "  be  cried. 

(Frontispiece.) 

"  Tou-saw-me-then  ?  " 

(Facing  page  162.) 

"  What  right  had  he  to  look  for  a  woman's 
face  in  the  foam  ?  " 

(Facing  page  222.) 


Trevelyan  lay  on  the  floor' 

(Facing  page  324. 


PROLOGUE 


I      The  POTTER      | 
and  the   CLAY 

PROLOGUE 

THE  Lieutenant's  small  daughter  was 
swinging  on  the  railing  of  the  draw- 
bridge that  spanned  the  moat. 

Her  companions,  two  boys,  questioned  each 
other  with  their  eyes. 

"  She  says  she  won't  come,"  said  the  elder  in 
what  he  fondly  believed  to  be  an  undertone. 
"  She  says  she  won't  play — " 

"I  never  did!     So  there!" 

The  small  girl  wheeled  about  suddenly  and 
descended  from  her  perch  and  stamped  her 
foot;  her  long,  straight  hair  of  an  indefinite 
brown,  shaken  by  the  tempest  the  boy's  words 
had  awakened. 

"No;  but  you  won't,"  said  Rob,  promptly. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence;  but  instead 
of  the  tirade  the  anxious  watchers  expected,  a 
tear  appeared  on  Gary's  little  nose  and  quietly 
dropped  into  the  waters  of  the  moat.  Gary 
was  nothing  if  she  was  not  a  bundle  of  contra- 

21 


dictions.  Johnny  shuffled  nervously  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  but  Rob  grew  impatient. 

"  Well,  are  you  coming?  "  he  asked  after  the 
pause  in  which  he  had  vainly  waited  for  Gary 
to  smile  again. 

"  No,  I'm  tired.  I  hate  walking,  too,"  said 
Gary  peevishly. 

"  'Course  not — to  walk,"  said  Rob,  scorn- 
fully. "  We  can  steal  Lieutenant  Burden's 
boat." 

"  You  wouldn't  dare."  said  Gary,  but  her 
voice  was  tremulous  with  eagerness,  and  the 
tears  she  had  forgotten  to  wipe  away  were 
still  shining  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Wouldn't  I,  though !  Come  along  and 
see!" 

Cary  balanced  herself  carefully  on  one  foot 
and  considered.  It  wasn't  well  to  let  Rob 
think  she  didn't  have  to  be  persuaded.  He 
had  been  so  cross  too. 

"  I  haven't  got  my  sunbonnet,"  she  began. 
"  And  I've  forgotten  the  gun  I  put  it  in." 

"  I'd  just  as  lieve  hunt  for  it,"  said  Johnny, 
politely. 

"That's  just  like  a  girl!  You  don't  need 
the  old  thing — anyway  I  thought  you  hated 

22 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


it,"  retorted  Rob,  who  did  not  fill  the  role  of 
pleader. 

"  'Course  Mammy  Amy  is  'way — gone  for 
a  week  to  see  her  grandbaby.  I  don't  s'pose 
I  really  need  my  pinafore  either — if  I  go!" 
The  Lieutenant's  small  daughter  hesitated  to 
watch  the  effect  of  the  words.  Rob  apparently 
was  not  to  be  moved,  so  she  buried  her  pride 
and  backed  up  to  Johnny. 

"  Please  undo  me,"  she  said,  calmly,  and  the 
older  boy  struggled  manfully  with  the  holes 
and  buttons. 

"  I'll  be  right  back — quick  as  a  wink,"  and 
she  flew  over  the  drawbridge  back  to  the 
fort,  her  long  hair  and  short  dress  blowing  in 
the  wind.  She  hid  the  pinafore  under  her  arm, 
and  when  she  reached  the  circle  of  the  parade 
ground,  she  sidled  up  to  one  of  the  great  guns 
captured  in  the  war,  and  surreptitiously  poked 
the  gingham  roll  down  its  mouth.  Clothes 
were  a  necessary  evil,  but  sunbonnets  and  pin- 
afores were  the  worst  and  most  evil  things  of 
all — and  not  to  be  endured  when  Mammy  Amy 
was  not  around,  and  the  big  show  guns  offered 
such  a  safe  and  charming  hiding  place.  It 
only  needed  coolness  and  care  to  accomplish  the 

23 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


feat  without  detection.  Of  course,  a  thing 
once  buried  in  the  heart  of  one  of  the  big  guns 
was  lost  forever — which  was  just  as  well, 
thought  Gary,  being  one  less  to  bother  her — 
since  it  was  one  thing  to  force  the  articles 
down  into  the  big  black  mouths  and  another  to 
extract  the  sunbonnets  and  pinafores,  even  if 
she  could  have  remembered  which  particular 
gun  held  which  particular  thing — which  she 
could  never  do. 

She  hurried  back  to  the  drawbridge,  and  the 
sentry,  who  adored  every  inch  of  the  "  Post 
Baby,"  stood  at  "  attention  "  and  saluted  her 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  she  passed  him. 
Gary  slowed  her  walk  and  inclined  her  head 
graciously  in  greeting. 

"  Good  evenin',  Jones,"  she  said,  innocently. 

Then  she  rejoined  the  boys. 

"  Well,  are  you  really  ready?  "  said  Rob,  a 
bit  crossly. 

The  Lieutenant's  small  daughter  did  not 
deign  to  notice  him. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  condescendingly,  "  if  I 
go,  I'll  go  'round  by  the  road  way — it's 
shorter." 

The  "  road  way  "  was  a  good  deal  longer, 

24 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


but  it  was  out  of  the  reach  of  Gary's  father  and 
the  fort. 

She  wiped  her  dry  eyes  on  one  of  Johnny's 
handkerchiefs — Johnny  always  had  more  than 
one,  while  Rob  and  herself  frequently  went 
"  shares  "  on  a  stolen  or  a  borrowed  one — and 
then  she  raced  Rob  to  the  end  of  the  draw- 
bridge. 

Gary's  conscience  was  troubling  her.  She 
told  herself  it  was  her  stomach  and  the  lemon 
pie  she  had  appropriated  from  the  pantry  shelf, 
but  it  was  undoubtedly  her  conscience,  mingled 
with  a  fear  that  papa-lieutenant  or  some  of  the 
other  officers  might  loom  in  sight  and  inquiring 
into  the  project,  carry  her  off. 

Ahead,  thirteen-year  old  Johnny  was  moral- 
izing. 

"  Perhaps  we  oughtn't  to  take  her — she's  so 
little." 

"  She's  seven,"  said  Rob,  "  and  what's  going 
to  hurt  her  ?  "  He  kept  his  eyes  away  from 
the  over-clouding  sky. 

"  I  don't  know — "  said  the  cautious  Johnny, 
"  but—" 

"  I  guess  we  can  take  care  of  a  small  girl  like 
her.  You're  thirteen  and  I'm  eleven." 

25 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


At  the  water  edge,  conscience  spoke  once 
more  but  was  overruled  when  at  Johnny's 
question  as  to  the  judiciousness  of  her  going, 
Rob  declared  she  was  afraid. 

"  I  ain't  afraid,  so  there!  Robby  Trevelyan! 
My  papa  never  said  I  couldn't  go !  " 

Gary  majestically  slipped  into  the  stolen  boat, 
and  seated  herself  in  the  bow.  Johnny  took  the 
rudder  and  Rob  the  oars. 

The  boy  was  as  much  at  home  on  the  sea  as 
he  was  in  his  bed  at  night.  Indeed,  more  so, 
since  he  hated  the  one  and  loved  the  other  with 
all  the  passionate  strength  of  a  coast-child's 
heart.  He  had  been  born  in  inland  England, 
but  had  lived  most  of  his  life  in  western  Scot- 
land where  the  great  rocks  rise  boldly  along  the 
coast — that  coast  intersected  by  numerous  sea- 
lochs,  bounded  by  hills  and  separated  from  each 
other  by  mountainous  peninsulas. 

The  burden  of  the  deep  sea's  song  of  eternal 
restlessness  had  become  the  controlling  passion 
of  the  boy's  life.  The  wild  freedom  of  wild 
living  things  appealed  to  him  and  fear  was  a 
word  unknown.  Not  a  nearby  cliff  he  had  not 
climbed;  not  a  nearby,  darkened  cave,  formed 
by  the  overhanging  rocks,  he  had  not  explored. 

26 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  Scottish  folk  forgot  he  was  an  English 
lad  as  his  skiff  became  a  familiar  feature  of 
the  western  sea-bound  landscape.  There  was 
scarcely  a  Scottish  boy  of  double  his  age  who 
could  outstrip  him  in  swimming,  and  when  the 
hated  books  had  been  laid  to  one  side  and  the 
tutor  had  gone  away  for  the  summer  months, 
old  Mactier,  a  retainer  of  his  father's,  had  taken 
the  child  in  charge,  carrying  him  over  to  the 
moorland  country  and  teaching  him  the  mean- 
ing and  the  use  of  firearms.  His  mother  had 
at  first  protested,  but  Trevelyan  had  only 
laughed.  "  Let  the  boy  alone,"  he  said,  and  he 
gloried  with  old  Mactier  at  the  lad's  stocky 
build,  firm  muscles  and  enduring  fearlessness, 
knowing  that  in  her  secret  heart  his  wife  re- 
membered the  traditions  of  her  Scottish  clan, 
and  was  glad. 

Then  Trevelyan's  wife  had  died.  The  home 
on  western,  rock-bound  Scotland  had  been 
closed,  until  the  boy  should  grow  to  man's 
estate  and  enter  on  his  mother's  heritage.  Tre- 
velyan sent  the  boy  to  his  sister — Johnny's 
mother — living  in  east  Scotland,  and  then  re- 
turned to  England.  The  sudden  loss,  the  still 
more  sudden  change  from  the  wild  free  life 

27 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


lived  on  the  western  coast  to  the  quietness  of 
the  life  lived  by  the  Stewarts,  told  upon  the 
child.  Mercifully,  his  healthy  training  was 
stronger  than  the  inroads  made  by  childish 
grief,  but  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease  and  home- 
sick. He  hated  the  flatness  of  this  new  eastern 
country — the  low  and  shelving  coast.  This 
was  not  Scotland  to  him.  It  was  not  the  Scot- 
land he  had  known.  It  was  not  Mactier's 
Scotland — and  his. 

His  aunt  was  kind — overkind,  her  own  chil- 
dren sometimes  thought  when  she  sat  out  all 
their  bedtime  hour  on  the  foot  of  Robert's  bed, 
instead  of  theirs — but  "  auntie  "  couldn't  un- 
derstand. All  the  three  children  were  kind 
but  they  couldn't  quite  understand  either. 
Johnny  was  undoubtedly  the  best,  but  Johnny 
loved  books  as  passionately  as  Rob  hated  them, 
and  would  listen  to  his  father  discuss  politics 
by  the  hour,  if  he  only  had  the  chance.  Robert 
loathed  politics. 

Then  one  day  Johnny's  mother  had  a  talk 
with  her  husband.  It  ended  in  her  giving  up  a 
London  season  and  starting  with  Johnny  and 
Trevelyan's  boy,  for  America.  A  long  prom- 

28 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ised  visit  to  a  life  friend,  who  had  married  a 
United  States  officer,  was  the  excuse.  It  was 
not  until  years  after,  when  Trevelyan's  little 
son  had  grown  to  manhood  that  he  knew  the 
real  reason  for  that  sudden  ocean  voyage.. 

The  change  had  the  desired  effect.  He  met 
new  people.  He  saw  new  things.  He 
watched  new  customs.  He  knew  Gary. 

But  the  wistfulness  for  Mactier  was  in  the 
boy's  eyes  now  as  he  looked  over  Johnny's  head 
in  front  of  him,  to  the  long  stretch  of  low  sand 
country  he  was  leaving.  He  pulled  with  long, 
even  strokes. 

Gary  was  talkative. 

"  Is  this — "  she  waved  her  arms  intending  to 
designate  the  new  sweep  of  coast  line  and  of 
water,  "  all  this  I  mean — is  it  like  England  or 
Scotland?" 

"  Something,"  said  Johnny  slowly.  "  It's 
really  quite  like  home — my  home,"  he  added 
quickly,  seeing  that  his  younger  cousin  had 
stopped  rowing  and  was  leaning  forward  with 
hurt  eyes. 

Suddenly,  the  boy  drew  in  his  oars,  rest- 
ing on  them  and  allowing  the  boat  to  drift. 

29 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  It  isn't  like  my  home,"  he  cried  passionately; 
a  wild  thrill  of  homesickness  surging  over  him, 
"  It  isn't  like  my  Scotland — one  little  bit !  We 
have  great  big  rocks  rising  out  of  the  water — 
not  long  beaches  like  this !  And  the  sea  beats 
and  beats  and  beats  against  them — it  doesn't 
just  lap  the  sand  as  it  does  here — "  the  boy 
drew  in  his  breath  quickly,  hurrying  on,  "  And 
you  haven't  got  our  heather  and  our  bracken, 
and  our  country  isn't  flat — except  the  moor- 
lands where  Mactier  used  to  take  me  to  hunt, 
and  even  our  moors  are  not  like  this !  " 

He  stopped  suddenly;  and  he  buttoned  and 
unbuttoned  his  pea-jacket.  He  wouldn't  for 
the  world  have  let  Johnny  see  his  eyes,  but 
Johnny  was  looking  at  Gary.  The  child  was 
leaning  forward  with  angry  face. 

"  You're  a  horrid,  horrid  boy !  "  she  cried, 
"  You  haven't  a  single  nice  thing  to  say  about 
us  or  our  flag  or — or  me !  You're  impolite  and 
you're  dreadfully  rude  and  I'll  never  play  with 
you  again ! " 

Trevelyan's  boy  continued  to  button  and  un- 
button his  pea-jacket.  He  didn't  care  now  if 
Johnny  did  see  his  eyes.  Johnny  saw  them, 
too,  and  he  was  frightened.  One  day,  Rob's 

3° 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


eyes  had  had  that  look  when  their  tutor  had 
threatened  to  strike  him.     He  spoke  hastily. 

"  Rob  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,   Gary,"  he. 
said ;   "  but  Rob's  home  was  beautiful — a  great 
deal  more  beautiful  than  mine,  and — and  even 
more  beautiful  than  your  home,  and  so  you 
mustn't — " 

Gary's  anger  melted  like  a  mist  before  the 
sun.  She  slid  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
then  crept  along  to  Rob  on  the  rower's  seat. 
She  pulled  at  his  sleeve. 

"  Rob — I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean — really 
truly  mean — " 

Trevelyan's  boy  shook  away  the  child's  cling- 
ing fingers. 

Gary  drew  back ;  her  lips  quivering. 

"  I'm  cold,"  she  said,  for  Gary  never  would 
have  admitted  that  a  boy  could  hurt  her  so, 
"  I'm  cold,  and — and  tired.  Can't  we  go 
home,  Johnny?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  No,  we  won't,"  said  Rob,  moodily,  "  the 
oars  are  gone." 

The  oars  were  gone — slipped  from  the  locks 
when  he  had  drawn  them  in,  and  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  quarrel  they  had  floated  away. 

31 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  two  boys  knew  that  the  oars  were  not  the 
only  things  on  the  surface  of  the  deep,  drifting 
out  to  sea. 

Behind  them  a  bank  of  storm  clouds  was 
gathering  and  a  sudden  stone-color  fell  upon 
the  face  of  the  waters. 

The  clouds  increased  in  size  and  swept  to- 
ward them,  seemingly  poised  directly  overhead. 
Then  they  parted  and  the  rain  fell  in  a  great 
straight  sheet  of  water.  The  oarless  boat 
tossed  dangerously,  and  the  rain  gathered  in 
the  bottom. 

Gary,  half  rose,  beside  herself  with  terror. 
The  storm  had  drenched  her  to  the  skin,  and 
her  long,  straight  hair  lay,  matted  with  the 
wet,  close  to  her  small  head.  Her  wide  gray 
eyes  looked  out  dark  against  the  pallor  of  her 
skin. 

"Sit  down!" 

It  was  Johnny's  voice.  Mechanically,  the 
child  obeyed. 

Once,  years  later,  he  so  commanded  her,  and 
she  yielded  then  as  now. 

She  cowered  in  the  bow  and  was  silent. 

In  the  stern  the  elder  boy  grasped  the  rudder, 
forcing  the  boat  for  a  time  in  the  direction  of 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  far-off  Point.  The  rough  ropes  slipped 
through  his  hands,  in  spite  of  effort,  and  tore 
them  cruelly. 

Trevelyan's  boy  had  crept  to  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  the  better  to  balance  it.  The  wind 
swept  across  his  hair,  forcing  it  back  from  his 
forehead,  as  with  a  mighty  hand.  The  joy  of 
an  unknown  danger  was  in  his  blood  and  the 
color  was  in  his  cheeks.  The  wild  spirit  of  the 
storm  found  a  challenge  in  his  eyes. 

He  was  a  being  apart  from  the  other  two, 
and  yet  sharing  their  danger.  The  freedom 
and  the  peril  were  as  elixir  to  his  soul,  and  yet 
he  never  lost  consciousness  of  the  wind  cloud 
in  the  distance ;  and  he  knew  it  to  be  as  merci- 
less as  it  was  strong. 

"  Steer  for  the  Point,"  he  shouted.  Johnny 
nodded. 

They  neared  the  shore.  Then  the  wind 
came  upon  them  and  churned  the  bay  into  a 
white  foam.  It  turned  the  frail  boat  around 
as  on  a  pivot,  heading  it  for  the  open  sea,  and 
with  the  effort  the  ropes  that  held  the  rudder 
broke. 

The  boys  looked  at  each  other.  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  both ;  it  was  characteristic  of  their 

33 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


training  and  their  birth,  that  the  sense  of  per- 
sonal danger  did  not  touch  them  and  that  it  was 
'  solely  for  the  small  girl  they  thought. 

In  the  face  of  the  older  boy  was  a  strong 
courage  that  soothed  and  sustained  the  fright- 
ened child;  but  in  the  face  of  Trevelyan's  son 
was  defiance  against  the  might  of  the  storm, 
and  the  sea,  and  death. 

He  ripped  open  his  pea-jacket;  he  unlaced 
his  water-soaked  boots;  he  stripped  to  his 
shirt: 

"  Keep  the  boat  steady,"  cried  Trevelyan's 
son,  "  I'm  going  to  swim  to  the  Point  and  get 
help!" 

The  older  boy  caught  him  by  the  wrist. 

"  You'll  be  drowned.     I'll  go  !  " 

Trevelyan's  son  shook  him  off.  He  threw 
back  his  head. 

"  I've  swum  double  the  distance,"  he  shouted, 
"  Anyhow,  we'll  all  die  here." 

He  balanced  himself  on  the  rower's  seat. 
Then  he  raised  his  arms  above  his  head  before 
he  sprang.  The  joy  of  the  coming  struggle 
was  in  the  boy's  eyes  —  the  joy  of  testing  his 
strength  against  the  sea's  forces. 

He  dived.    The  boat,  lightened  of  his  weight, 

34 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


rocked,  sprang  higher  in  the  water  and  then 
righted.  From  the  bow  came  the  sob  of  a 
girl-child's  terror. 

Trevelyan's  son  rose,  striking  out  for  shore. 

Gary  and  the  elder  boy  watched  him — even 
as  they  drifted  seaward. 


Trevelyan's  son  was  gaining.  The  fight  had 
been  a  long  one  and  a  hard  one.  The  rain  had 
lessened,  but  the  wind  and  tide  had  carried  him 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  landing  he  had 
intended  to  make.  His  thoughts  were  grow- 
ing disconnected.  At  first,  he  had  only  gloried 
in  his  own  skill ;  then  he  thought  of  Scotland — 
he  could  scarcely  have  told  why — and  of  old 
Mactier.  Then  he  remembered  Gary — and 
after  awhile,  he  wondered  if  he  had  ever  drank 
as  much  salt  water  before. 

Then  the  wind  changed.  That  was  a  help. 
Once  he  trod  water,  looking  out  over  the  face 
of  the  sea  for  a  sign  of  the  boat.  He  saw  it. 
It  was  far  away  and  still  drifting  seaward,  but 
it  was  upright  and  the  coast  boy  knew  that 
unless  the  storm  began  again,  it  could  live  in 
spite  of  the  long  swells  that  bore  it  outward. 

35 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


His  arms  began  to  get  numb,  and  a  mist — 
he  supposed  it  was  the  rain — got  between  him 
and  his  vision.  The  low  banks  of  clouds  on 
the  horizon,  too,  assumed  strange  shapes.  They 
looked  like  the  gray  crags  at  home. 

Once  his  breath  seemed  to  leave  him  and  his 
arms  grew  suddenly  powerless  and  he  sank. 
The  emersion  gave  him  new  energy.  The  love 
of  life,  the  wild  thrill  of  fearless  conquest, 
swept  right  over  him  anew,  and  he  pulled  for 
shore.  After  a  little  he  raised  his  right  arm 
and  sounded.  The  waters  were  up  to  his  eyes, 
but  he  touched  land.  He  rose  and  struck  out 
again,  and  again,  and — again. 

Then  he  waded  in  and  stood  upon  the  beach, 
his  face  turned  seaward. 

Trevelyan's  boy  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  at  the  waters  and  the  storm. 

"  I  beat  you,"  he  shouted  passionately,  "  / 
beat  you! " 


The  Lieutenant  was  in  his  office.  It  had 
been  a  busy  day  of  petty  annoyances  and  he 
was  tired. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  filled  his 

36 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


pipe,  packing  it  carefully.  Then  he  lighted  a 
match. 

Some  one  fumbled  at  the  door  knob  in  an  un- 
certain way;  hesitated,  and  tried  again. 

"  Come  in !  "  shouted  the  Lieutenant.  The 
noise  hurt  his  nerves. 

The  door  opened  and  Rob  entered.  His 
eyes  looked  shadowy  by  contrast  to  the  pinched 
paleness  of  his  face.  He  walked  with  diffi- 
culty. His  short  legs  got  tangled  up  in  the 
long  coat  he  had  gotten  from  one  of  the  men 
of  the  rescuing  party,  and  he  stumbled  over  it. 

The  Lieutenant  rose.  The  match  burned 
down  to  his  fingers  and  he  mechanically  tossed 
it  into  the  fire.  Then  he  laid  down  his  pipe. 

The  short  odd  figure  in  the  long  overcoat 
advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  facing 
Gary's  father. 

"  Gary—"  he  began,  and  then  stopped  a  mo- 
ment and  cleared  his  throat.  It  seemed  still 
full  of  salt  water.  "  I  stole  Lieutenant  Bur- 
den's boat  and  I  took  Gary  and  Johnny  out. 
The  storm  came.  I  knew  it  was  coming,  but 
I  didn't  care,  and  I  went.  And  I  lost  the  oars 
and — "  The  salt  water  feeling  came  back. 

"  Gary  ?  "  asked  Gary's  father. 

37 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan's  boy  shook  the  long  sleeves  away 
from  his  hands,  which  he  pushed  down  into  the 
great  pockets  of  the  coat,  where  they  hunted 
around  for  themselves.  The  Lieutenant  was 
tall  and  Trevelyan's  boy  was  short,  and  he  had 
to  look  up  a  long  way  before  he  could  look  him 
full  in  the  face. 

"  She's  coming,"  he  said,  "  and  so's  Johnny. 
They  both  feel  sort  of  sick,  but  I'm  all  right, 
and  so  I've  come  here.  I  thought  we'd  better 
have  it  over  with." 

"  What?  "  asked  the  Lieutenant. 

"  Why,  the  thrashing !  Of  course,  you'll 
thrash  me." 

He  came  forward  a  step  and  swayed. 

Gary's  father  caught  him  as  he  fell  and  laid 
him  on  the  lounge. 


That  night  Gary  was  ill.  The  next  day  she 
was  worse.  She  complained  of  a  sharp  pain 
in  her  side  and  toward  evening  she  began  to 
breathe  heavily. 

At  nine,  when  the  post  surgeon  came  again, 
she  was  burning  with  fever,  and  he  shook  his 
head  when  he  listened  to  her  lungs. 

38 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  It  looks  confoundedly  like  pneumonia,"  he 
told  the  Lieutenant  who  was  standing  anx- 
iously by  Gary's  little  brass  bed,  and  he  went 
off  to  look  up  a  nurse. 

The  Lieutenant  bent  over  the  child  a  moment 
after  the  surgeon  had  left,  and  then  he  turned 
hastily  away  and  lowered  the  lamp  and  shaded 
its  glare  from  Gary's  eyes.  Then  he  went  over 
to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out.  Below 
him  stretched  the  yard  of  his  quarters.  It  was 
Gary's  playground.  Beyond  the  garden  lay 
the  parade  ground  and  further  off  the  other 
officers'  quarters.  He  could  see  Gary  now,  her 
long,  straight  hair  flying  in  the  wind  as  she 
tore  by  the  flagstaff  to  meet  him  on  his  return 
from  duty.  Way  off  in  the  distance  he  could 
see  the  dim,  dark  outline  of  the  Fort's  walls, 
and  beyond,  the  strip  of  moonlit  sea.  He  had 
used  to  carry  Gary  on  his  shoulders,  when  she 
was  a  baby,  along  those  walls  and  she  had  used 
to  clap  her  hands  at  the  sunlight  dancing  on  the 
water.  Everything  spoke  to  him  of  Gary.  He 
turned  and  went  back  to  the  bed  and  knelt  down 
by  it  and  buried  his  head  close  to  the  child's — 
so  close  that  he  could  feel  her  hot  breath  on  his 
cheek. 

39 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I  was  a  fool,"  he  told  himself,  passionately, 
"  to  fancy  I  could  care  for  a  little  flower,  but  I 
couldn't  give  her  up  after  her  mother  died." 

He  rose  presently  and  cautiously  heightened 
the  lamp  and  wrote  a  hurried  line  on  a  scrap  of 
paper. 

"  Gary  is  ill.  Pneumonia.  Mam'  Amy  is 
away.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

He  signed  the  note  and  then  crept  down 
stairs  and  gave  it  to  the  colored  boy.  The  col- 
ored boy  carried  it  across  the  parade  ground  to 
the  house  where  the  English  children  were 
staying  and  waited,  as  he  had  been  bidden,  for 
an  answer. 

The  Lieutenant  went  back  to  the  window. 
He  could  see  the  house  across  the  parade 
ground  from  there,  and  presently  he  saw  the 
shadowy  figure  of  a  woman  accompanied  by 
his  colored  boy  passing  the  flagstaff. 

"  Heaven  bless  her!     I  knew  she'd  come." 

He  went  down  stairs  to  open  the  door  for 
her  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  closed  it 
and  turned  to  thank  her  that  he  saw  it  was  not 
the  wife  of  his  comrade. 

"  Mary  was  away,"  the  exquisitely  modu- 

4° 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


lated  English  voice  fell  on  his  overwrought 
nerves  like  a  balm.  "  I  took  the  liberty  of 
opening  the  note,  fearing  something  might  be 
wrong  with  your  little  girl  after  yesterday's 
terrible  experience.  I  have  come  to  nurse  her. 
I  know  you  won't  send  me  away." 

John's  mother  threw  off  the  long  cloak  she 
had  flung  over  her  shoulders. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Stewart—" 

"  There — please  don't !  I  am  the  mother  of 
three  children — I  once  was  the  mother  of 
four,"  the  English  woman  looked  down  stead- 
ily at  her  wedding  ring,  twisting  it  on  her 
finger,  "  I  am  the  adopted  mother  of  an- 
other— "  She  raised  her  eyes,  smiling  gravely, 
"  We  are  all  alike — we  women ;  be  we  Amer- 
ican or  English.  Besides  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
my  two  boys  Gary  would  never  be  ill  now. 
Come,  take  me  to  her." 

There  was  not  a  nurse  to  be  found,  and  at 
midnight  the  post  surgeon  returned,  discour- 
aged from  a  fruitless  search. 

A  sense  of  order  and  exquisite  peace  seemed 
to  permeate  the  child's  sick  room.  It  im- 
pressed him  before  he  had  crossed  the  thresh- 

41 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


old.  A  woman  was  sitting  by  the  little  brass 
bed  and  he  could  hear  her  speaking  soothingly 
to  Gary. 

She  turned  when  she  heard  his  step  and  rose. 
He  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  You're  a  trump,"  he  said,  concisely,  and 
went  over  to  the  bed. 

"How  is  she?" 

"Bad — very  bad!  Where's  the  child's 
father?" 

"  In  the  next  room.  He  cannot  stand  seeing 
her  suffer." 

"Humph!  Shouldn't  wonder.  She's  the 
apple  of  his  eye.  You  know  we  call  her  the 
'  Post  Baby ' — have  ever  since  her  mother 
died." 

"  How're  your  young  rascals?  "  he  inquired, 
when  he  was  leaving.  "  They  and  the  '  Post 
Baby  '  here  had  a  pretty  time  of  it  yesterday." 

"  God  only  knows  what  saved  them." 

"  Well,  I  know.  It  was  your  two  young- 
sters. They're  both  game.  The  Queen  will 
have  two  good  soldiers  some  day." 

The  English  woman  smiled. 

"  I  left  Rob  in  a  perfect  fury  at  the  foot  of 
his  bed.  He  woke  up  when  I  was  getting 

42 


The  Potter  and  the  Cla 


ready  to  come  over,  and  wanted  to  come,  too. 
He  says  Gary  belongs  to  him.  I  threatened 
severe  punishment,  and  —  left  him." 

The  post  surgeon  chuckled. 

"  He'll  risk  that  if  he  takes  it  in  his  head  to 
come." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  will.  I  left  Johnny  consol- 
ing him." 

"  The  two  of  them  called  seven  times  this 
afternoon." 

"  I  know  —  but  I  never  dreamed  Gary  was 
really  ill." 

"  Well  —  "  The  post  surgeon  hesitated, 
"  I'll  be  back  after  awhile  and  if  the  baby's 
worse,  I'll  spend  the  night  with  you." 

He  closed  the  front  door  softly;  hesitated 
for  an  instant  before  he  recrossed  the  shadowy 
parade  ground,  and  starting  to  go  on,  stumbled 
over  a  dark  object  on  the  porch. 

The  dark  object  turned  out  to*  be  a  boy,  who 
rose  and  pulled  at  the  surgeon's  sleeve. 

"How  is  she?  Oh!  tell  me  how  she  is!" 
he  asked.  His  thin,  high  bred  face  with  the 
delicately  chiseled  features,  showed  out  sharply 
in  the  waning  moonlight. 

"Great  Scott!" 

43 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  No,  it's  only  Johnny  Stewart,"  said  the 
boy,  a  faint  flash  of  humor  lighting  up  his  pale 
face  for  a  moment.  "  I  couldn't  sleep— tell  me 
— is  she — worse  ?  " 

"  She's  a  pretty  sick  little  girl,"  said  the  sur- 
geon, amused  at  the  situation.  "  Your  mother 
has  been  expecting  trouble  from  your  quarter, 
but  she  rather  looked  for  it  from  Rob." 

"  He's  asleep,"  said  the  boy,  simply,  "  I  sat 
with  him  until  he  went  to  sleep,  but — you  know 
I'm  the  oldest,  and  I'm  responsible  for  it  all." 
He  looked  up  gravely,  self-accusing,  in  the  post 
surgeon's  weather-beaten  face. 

"  Well,  you're  a  pair  of  you  1 "  said  the  sur- 
geon, looking  hard  at  the  flagstaff.  "  Now, 
what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  yourself?  " 

"  You  couldn't  slip  me  in,  somehow  ? " 
pleaded  the  boy.  "  I'd  stay  down  stairs  and  I'd 
be  awfully  quiet  and  I  wouldn't  trouble  a  soul. 
There  might  be  errands — "  he  broke  off,  "  I'd 
like  to  be  near  her,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think 
you  could  manage  it  ?  " 

The  post  surgeon  thought  he  could,  and  the 
post  surgeon  did. 

Then  he  started  once  more  to  cross  the  pa- 
rade grounds. 

44 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


As  he  passed  the  flagstaff  and  entered  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  a  small  whirlwind  struck 
him.  The  whirlwind  proved  to  be  Rob.  He 
was  only  half  dressed;  his  shirt  being  open  at 
the  throat  and  devoid  of  tie.  One  stocking 
had  been  forgotten  in  his  haste  and  he  was  hat- 
less.  The  surgeon  caught  him  by  his  hair  and 
pulled  him  back. 

Then  the  whirlwind  developed  into  a  small 
tornado. 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  cried.     "  Let  me  go  I " 

11  I'll  take  you  to  the  guard  house  if  you  don't 
behave,"  threatened  the  surgeon.  "  Now  what 
in  thunderation  are  you  after  ?  " 

"  Going  to  see  Gary,"  said  Rob,  sullenly. 

"  You  are,  hey  ?  Well,  you're  not  going  to 
do  anything  of  the  kind.  You'd  scare  any  lit- 
tle girl  into  a  fit.  You're  going  home." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Rob,  rebelliously. 

"  Yes,  you  are." 

"  I'll  come  out  again." 

"  Not  behind  locked  doors." 

"  Yes  I  will,  too,  through  the  window." 

"  I'll  see  to  the  window." 

"  I'll  climb  through  the  transom." 

He  made  a  dive  under  the  surgeon's  arm. 

45 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  surgeon  caught  him  by  the  seat  of  his 
small  trousers. 

"Where's  Johnny?" 

"  That's  the  trouble— is  it?  Well,  Johnny's 
a  different  quantity  from  you.  Johnny's  safe 
enough." 

"  Johnny's  at  Gary's  house.  I  know  it.  I'm 
going,  too,"  cried  the  younger  boy,  passion- 
ately. 

"  If  you  make  a  sound,  I'll  thrash  you  within 
an  inch  of  your  life,"  said  the  surgeon,  in  des- 
peration, retracing  his  steps  across  the  parade 
ground. 

"  I'd  scratch  your  eyes  out  if  you  tried  to," 
said  the  boy,  a  flood  of  crimson  sweeping  his 
face. 

"  Well — look  out  that  your  noise  don't  kill 
Gary,"  said  the  surgeon. 

Trevelyan's  boy  caught  the  surgeon's  hand. 

"  Indeed  I'll  try  to  be  good,"  he  said,  earn- 
estly, "  if  you'll  only  take  me  to  Gary." 

Mrs.  Stewart  opened  the  door. 

"  Here's  one  boy,"  said  the  surgeon  grimly, 
pushing  Trevelyan's  son  over  the  threshold, 
"  There's  another  in  the  dining-room." 

46 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


'*  You're  a  nice  one  to  leave  a  chap  asleep 
and  then  sneak  off.  I  wouldn't  have  been  so 
mean ! " 

Rob  blinked  in  the  glare  of  the  dining-room 
lamp,  and  shifted  from  the  stockingless  leg  to 
the  covered  one,  "  I  didn't  think  Johnny  Stew- 
art— "  His  voice  rose. 

Johnny  came  forward. 

"  Stop  that  shouting ! "  he  commanded, 
"  Don't  you  know  Gary's  very,  very  sick?  " 

Rob  blinked  again.  It  was  a  blink  of  aston- 
ishment. He  had  never  seen  Johnny  quite  so 
angry  before. 

"  'Course  I  know  she's  sick.  That's  why 
I've  come."  He  sat  down  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  a  chair. 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence.  Johnny  sat 
at  the  big  table,  his  chin  between  his  hands  and 
looked  straight  ahead  of  him.  Rob  looked 
moodily  into  the  fire.  Once  the  younger  boy 
rose  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  What  you  suppose  is  happening  up  there  ?  " 
he  inquired  when  he  came  back. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"'Suppose  she's  dying?" 

47 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"Don't!" 

The  elder  boy  turned  sharply  and  lowered 
the  lamp  that  was  smoking. 

The  long  hours  crept  away.  By  and  by  the 
lamp  flickered  and  went  out,  and  the  fire  died 
down,  and  left  only  a  heap  of  white  ashes  on 
the  hearth.  Then  the  gray  dawn  crept  in  and 
after  awhile  the  gray  was  tinged  with  gold. 
Later,  the  sunrise  gun  boomed  through  the 
stillness,  to  be  followed  by  the  ringing  notes  of 
the  reveille. 

Upstairs,  the  post  surgeon  was  leaning  over 
the  little  brass  bed. 

"  I'll  spend  the  night,"  he  had  said  briefly, 
on  his  last  visit.  There  were  symptoms  about 
Gary's  labored  breathing  and  dry  cough  that  he 
did  not  like. 

The  child's  sleepless  eyes  and  flushed  face 
looked  wan  in  the  grayness  of  the  early 
dawn. 

As  the  hours  dragged  by,  Gary  became  more 
restless  and  her  mind  began  to  wander. 

"Don't  let  him,  Johnny!  Don't  let  him! 

He'll  drown !  He'll  dro "  the  voice  rose  in 

a  shriek  and  then  trailed  off. 

The   cry  had   reached   the  children   below 

48 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


stairs.  A  moment  later  and  Rob,  wide-eyed 
and  excited,  appeared  at  the  sick-room  door. 
He  was  confronted  by  his  old  foe  the  post 
surgeon. 

"  Can't  come  in  here,"  said  the  surgeon 
briefly.  "  It—" 

"  Oh,  but  tell  her  I'm  not  drowned !  Let  me 
tell  her—" 

The  surgeon  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
marched  him  down  stairs. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  promise  to  keep  still  ?  " 

The  post  surgeon  was  skilled  in  other  arts 
than  his  own  profession.  He  had  appealed  to 
the  boy's  honor. 

Trevelyan's  son  flung  himself  face  down- 
ward on  the  hearth  rug  and  lay  motionless. 
Johnny  went  to  him  and  knelt  beside  him  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  Something  of  John- 
ny's childhood  had  vanished  in  the  night,  never 
to  return.  He  did  not  say  anything  to  Rob; 
he  just  continued  to  kneel  beside  him  with  his 
hand  on  his  arm. 

Presently  Rob  sat  up.  His  wakeful  night 
had  not  improved  his  appearance.  His  shirt 
was  a  crumpled  mass ;  his  hair  was  disheveled, 
and  one  of  his  ill-laced  boots  was  gone. 

49 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  She  shan't  die !  "  he  cried,  passionately,  "  I 
won't  let  her  die!  I  won't!  /  won't! " 

Johnny  said  nothing.  Once,  long  ago,  a  lit- 
tle brother  had  died,  and  Johnny  still  remem- 
bered how  vainly  he  had  tried  to  wake  him. 
Johnny  had  seen  death. 

Upstairs  Gary  tossed  in  her  delirium. 

"  Johnny,  don't  make  me  keep  still !  I  can't 
keep  still  any  longer!  The  water  looks  so 
cold—" 

And  so  the  day  wore  on.  The  dry  cough 
stopped  and  the  fever  ran  higher  and  the  breath- 
ing came  more  labored,  and  Gary  lay  wide  eyed 
and  sleepless. 

The  children  wandered  like  little  ghosts 
through  the  rooms  of  the  lower  floor.  They 
pleaded  that  they  might  see  Gary  once.  The 
post  surgeon  tried  an  experiment. 

"  The  child's  strength  is  going  fast  for  lack 
of  sleep,"  he  told  Mrs.  Stewart,  "  We'll  see 
what  your  boys  can  do." 

He  brought  Rob  in  first,  and  Trevelyan's  son 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  was  silent  as 
they  had  bidden  him  to  be;  but  they  could  see 
that  he  trembled. 

Gary's    eyes,    bright    with    delirious    fever, 

5° 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


rested  on  him  for  a  moment.  Then  she  started 
up  in  bed. 

"  It's  Rob,  dear,"  said  Rob's  aunt,  bending 
over  her. 

"No,  it  isn't!"  cried  Gary.  "No — it— 
isn't !  Take  him  away ;  away — a-w-a-y !  " 

Rob  let  go  of  the  brass  railing  and  rushed 
impetuously  to  the  little  girl's  side  and  flung 
himself  down  by  the  bed. 

"  Gary!  Gary!  Don't  you  know  me?  It's 
me!  It's  only  Rob!" 

But  Gary  shrank  back  from  his  touch. 

"  I'm  frightened,"  she  moaned. 

The  Lieutenant  came  and  lifted  the  boy  and 
took  him  from  the  room.  Trevelyan's  son 
was  crying  passionately. 

The  excitement  proved  to  be  the  worst  pos- 
sible thing  for  Gary.  The  fever  ran  higher 
and  sapped  and  sapped  her  strength  and  still 
she  moaned  and  cried  in  her  delirium  and  still 
sleep  did  not  come. 

"  She  can't  grow  much  worse  and  stay  alive," 
muttered  the  post  surgeon,  "  And  something 
has  got  to  be  done." 

He  went  down  stairs  in  search  of  Johnny. 
He  found  the  boy  standing  by  the  window,  his 

51 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


white  face  turned  toward  the  sea.  Rob,  his 
passion  of  tears  spent,  lay  sleeping  heavily  on 
the  lounge.  The  surgeon  touched  the  elder 
boy  on  the  arm  and  motioned  him  to  follow  him. 
Outside  in  the  little  square  hall,  they  faced  each 
other — the  skilled  man  of  science,  and  the  deli- 
cately featured  English  boy  with  the  firm 
mouth. 

"  You're  going  to  take  me  to  Gary  ?  " 

The  surgeon  nodded. 

"  Yes.  She  wouldn't  see  Rob,  but  perhaps 
she'll  see  you.  I've  an  idea  she  will.  She's 
been  calling  your  name  all  day.  If  I  take  you 
to  her,  will  you  be  very  quiet?  " 

"  I'll  be  very  quiet,"  promised  the  little 
Briton,  gravely. 

"  And  we've  got  to  get  her  to  sleep.  Per- 
haps—" 

The  boy's  firm  mouth  quivered  for  an  in- 
stant. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

The  post  surgeon  let  him  go  into  Gary's  room 
alone,  and  he  motioned  the  boy's  mother  and 
Gary's  father  away  from  the  bed. 

The  boy  went  directly  to  the  head  of  the  bed 
and  stood  there  looking  down  at  Gary.  For  a 

52 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


long  while  Gary  did  not  notice  him.  But  he 
waited. 

The  stillness  of  the  room  grew — broken  only 
by  Gary's  piteous  moans.  After  awhile  she 
became  conscious  of  the  boy's  slim  figure  at 
her  side,  and  she  turned  her  restless,  feverish 
eyes  to  him. 

Then  he  stroked  her  long  straight  hair  tim- 
idly. 

The  moans  ceased  suddenly. 

"  It's  Johnny,"  said  the  boy. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  took 
one  of  the  child's  hot  hands  in  his. 

Then  the  terror  of  the  delirium  fell  on  her 
again.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  flinging  out  her 
arms  and  crying,  and  still  the  boy  kept  that 
firm  pressure  on  her  hand.  The  sustaining 
touch  won  her  back  from  the  thraldom  of  the 
fever  and  she  threw  herself  into  the  boy's  arms 
and  lay  there,  sobbing — sobbing. 

The  post  surgeon  nodded. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  muttered  from  the  door- 
way, and  beckoned  the  others  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room. 

For  an  hour  they  sat  there.  Gradually  the 
child's  sobs  grew  weaker;  after  awhile  they 

53 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


caught  their  echo  at  long  intervals  and  by  and 
by  they  died  away  altogether. 

The  shadows  of  the  dying  day  crept  into  the 
sick  room  and  the  wanness  of  its  departing 
struggle  was  reflected  on  Gary's  small,  pinched 
face.  She  still  lay  in  the  boy's  arms,  quiet — 
spent  with  the  effort  of  her  delirium.  The 
boy  sat  rigidly  mute,  supporting  her. 

The  day  sank  into  evening  and  the  post  sur- 
geon came  in  quietly  from  the  adjoining  room. 
The  boy's  eyes  met  his  as  he  entered.  It  was 
his  only  movement.  Otherwise  he  might  have 
been  carved  of  stone.  The  boy's  eyes  smiled 
and  the  post  surgeon  retraced  his  steps. 

"  She's  sleeping.  The  boy  holds  her  life  in 
his  hands.  If  he  can  only  remain  motion- 
less—" 

Another  hour  slipped  by.  The  post  surgeon 
came  in  again.  Gary  was  sleeping  still,  her 
whole  weight  resting  in  the  boy's  rigid  arms. 
He  was  growing  white  with  the  strain  of  his 
enforced  position.  The  surgeon  looked  down 
at  him. 

"  Can  you  hold  out  ?  "  he  asked,  below  his 
breath. 

54 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  boy  nodded. 

The  post  surgeon  went  down  stairs  noise- 
lessly to  the  sideboard  where  the  Lieutenant 
kept  his  wines. 

Rob  sat  up  as  he  entered. 

"  How's  Gary?  What  time  is  it?  Where's 
Johnny?" 

The  post  surgeon  went  up  and  laid  his  ringer 
on  Rob's  mouth. 

"  Gary's  sleeping.  If  you  wake  her,  you'll 
kill  her.  Don't  speak  above  a  whisper." 

He  rilled  a  glass  with  wine  and  turned  to 
leave  the  room. 

"Where's  Johnny?" 

"  With  Gary.     He  put  her  to  sleep." 

Trevelyan's  boy  clenched  his  hands  convul- 
sively. 

"  Johnny — with — Gary,"  he  said,  slowly, 
and  then  something  choked  him. 

He  followed  the  post  surgeon  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  and  watched  him  until  he  disappeared. 
Then  he  went  back  to  the  dimly  lighted,  lonely 
dining-room  and  hesitated. 

Suddenly  a  passionate  cry  rose  in  his  throat, 

which  he  smothered. 

>• 

55 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  turned  and  flung  himself  on  the  lounge. 

"  Dear  God,"  he  moaned,  "  Dear  God,  be 
good  to  a  little  boy.  I  want  to  die !  Quick !  " 

Upstairs  the  surgeon  held  the  brim  of  the 
wine  glass  to  the  elder  boy's  white  lips. 

The  enforced  position  had  become  an  agony. 
Once,  the  surgeon  saw  the  boy  bite  his  under 
lip  until  a  drop  of  blood  appeared.  He  got  a 
pillow;  two — half  a  dozen  and  supported  the 
boy's  stiff  back. 

Three  more  hours  dragged  away,  and  then 
Gary  stirred  and  woke.  Great  beads  of  per- 
spiration stood  out  on  her  thin,  drawn  little 
face,  but  the  fever  had  been  broken  in  her  sleep. 

The  boy's  grasp  suddenly  relaxed  and  Gary 
sank  back  on  the  pillow. 

The  Lieutenant  helped  the  boy  to  rise ;  end- 
ing, by  picking  him  up  in  his  arms  and  carrying 
him  from  the  room. 

He  re-entered  Gary's  room  by  way  of  the 
hall.  By  the  light  of  the  early  breaking  dawn, 
he  saw  something  dark  lying  before  Gary's 
outer  door. 

He  stooped  over  it. 

It  was  Trevelyan's  boy. 


BOOK    ONE 


THE   CLAY         -e? 
TAKES     SHAPE 


BOOK   ONE 
THE  CLAY  TAKES  SHAPE 


THE  six-foot  Englishman,  with  the  mil- 
itary carriage  and  the  rough  tweed 
cap,  continued  to  stare  at  the  back 
of  the  girl  in  the  brown  tailor  suit,  leaning 
over  the  ship's  rail.  There  was  something 
in  the  attitude  that  recalled  a  child  swing- 
ing on  the  railing  of  a  fort's  drawbridge. 
He  could  not  have  told  exactly  why.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  he  so  often  recalled  that  picture ; 
perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  always  held  fast 
to  a  vague  hope  that  some  day  he  might  meet 
that  child  again. 

The  girl  in  the  brown  tailor  suit  remained 
motionless,  her  face  turned  toward  the  Liberty 
that  was  melting  into  an  indistinct  blur.  The 
young  Englishman  came  a  little  nearer.  She 
had  not  been  there  when  he  had  come  aboard. 

57 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Of  that  he  was  sure.  Well,  he  had  probably 
missed  half  of  his  fellow  passengers  while  he 
was  changing  to  his  seafaring  clothes,  and  there 
had  been  a  couple  of  letters  to  be  written  to  be 
carried  back  by  the  pilot.  All  that  had  taken 
time. 

The  girl  turned.  The  last  faint  trace  of 
Liberty  had  faded;  she  might  just  as  well  ad- 
mit that,  and  give  her  attention  to  the  novelties 
of  ship-board  life.  She  looked  curiously  down 
the  long  white  deck.  Passengers  were  appear- 
ing every  moment,  clad  in  ulsters  and  soft  hats ; 
the  deck  steward  was  hurrying  to  and  fro  ad- 
justing steamer  chairs  and  wraps.  The  voy- 
age had  undoubtedly  begun. 

Suddenly  the  line  of  her  vision  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  tall  man  in  a  rough  tweed  cap. 
And  then  she  noticed  that  he  had  snatched  it 
from  his  head  and  was  coming  toward  her  with 
both  hands  outstretched. 

"  Isn't  it — Gary  ?  "  he  asked,  eagerly. 

The  girl  looked  into  his  eyes.  Somewhere 
in  their  grave  depths  a  smile  was  hidden. 

"  Why,  it's  Johnny,"  she  cried,  delightedly. 

"  To  be  sure  it's  Johnny !  And  what  do  you 
mean  by  sailing  under  an  English  flag?  " 

58 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  laughed  again,  showing  her  perfect 
teeth. 

"  Isn't  it  absurd  ?  But  Daddy  dragged  me 
into  it." 

"  Which  ?     The  Cunarder  or  the  trip  ?  " 

"  Both.  Where  in  the  world  have  you  been 
all  this  time,  and  oh!  how's  Rob?  I  declare 
I've  so  many  questions  to  ask  you  I  don't  know 
where  to  begin." 

Stewart  smiled. 

"  You're  the  same  old  Gary,"  he  said,  "  Only 
a  bit  taller.  Let  me  find  your  chair  for  you. 
You're  not  crossing  alone?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  leave  my  father?  " 

"  Of  course  not.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  There,  forgive  me.  I  was  rude.  I'm 
afraid  I  am  as  bad  as  ever."  Gary  sighed. 

"  I  never  said  that — " 

"  Well,  Papa's  writing  a  note  to  be  carried 
back  on  the  pilot.  If  he  does  not  come  up  soon, 
I'll  have  to  hunt  him  up.  I'm  his  shadow. 
To  tell  you  a  secret;  I'm  chaperoning  him  on 
this  trip ! " 

"  Indeed !  "     Stewart's  eyes  were  smiling. 

"  To  be  sure.     Now,  about  yourself — " 

"  Your  eyes  say,  '  What  have  you  been  doing 

59 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


in  America  that  you  failed  to  look  me  up  ? ' 
said  Stewart. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  thinking,  and  when 
we  were  going  to  hunt  for  you,  too,  when  we 
landed !  Come !  " 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  said  Stewart, 
meeting  her  eyes  squarely.  "  There  have  been 
a  good  many  years — uneventful  ones — of  a 
pretty  steady  '  grind  ',  and  rather  rigid  military 
training  at  Woolwich — " 

She  looked  up  quickly. 

"  You  are  an  officer  ?     An  engineer  ?  " 

He  laughed,  pleased. 

"  You  know  more  about  our  English  mili- 
tary schools  than  the  majority  of  American 
girls." 

"  You  forget  I  am  an  Army  woman.  Go 
on!" 

"  And  so  I'm  a  member — a  young  one — of 
the  Royal  Engineers.  I  was  ordered  to  India, 
where  I  served  out  my  sub-lieutenancy.  I  was 
in  a  bit  of  a  row  there,  and  after,  I  took  the 
jungle  fever  and  got  sick  leave.  They've  sent 
me  over  the  Atlantic  for  a  sea  trip.  I'm  to  be 
transferred  later.  I  was  only  in  New  York 

60 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


two  days.  That's  why  I  couldn't  look  you  up. 
You  see,  I  didn't  know  if  you  were  still  at  the 
old  fort  down  South,  or  in  Texas  or  Montana 
or — any  other  of  your  big  states."  He  was 
rapidly  getting  off  of  the  subject  of  "  self." 
"  Now,  where  have  you  been  and  why  didn't 
you  keep  on  writing?  " 

"  I  did  write,  but  you  wouldn't  answer — 
sent  the  letters  to  your  home  in  Scotland." 

"  Ah !  We  were  traveling;  the  old  place  has 
been  rented  almost  steadily  for  years.  They 
must  have  miscarried  in  the  forwarding. 
Father  has  preferred  London  political  life,  and 
mother  wanted  to  be  near  us  boys  when  at 
school  and  afterwards  when  we  became 
cadets — " 

"  How  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Well ;  thanks.  She'll  be  glad  to  see  you 
again." 

Gary  looked  seaward. 

"  I  shall  never  forget,"  she  said,  "  how  she 
nursed  me."  She  was  silent  a  moment. 
"  How's  Rob  ?  "  she  asked,  presently. 

"  I'm  inclined  to  think  he's  less  changed  than 
any  one  of  the  three  of  us.  He's  fiery,  fierce, 

61 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


affectionate,  as  ever,  with  a  wonderful  talent 
for  getting  into  scrapes  and  scrambling  out  of 
them  again." 

"  What  is  he — a  sailor?  " 

"  He  wanted  to  go  in  the  navy — bad.  Poor 
Rob.  But  my  uncle  had  set  his  heart  on  the 
army  for  him.  You  know  he  was  a  great 
fighter  in  his  day — retired  on  a  wound  that 
would  have  killed  most  men.  He  wanted  him 
to  go  to  Sandhurst,  but  Rob  kicked  on  that,  and 
they  compromised  on  Woolwich." 

"  I  didn't  know  Rob  would  ever  have  brains 
enough  for  the  Engineers."  Gary  laughed  and 
caught  wildly  at  her  hat,  which  the  wind  was 
trying  to  tear  from  her  head. 

"  Rob's  clever  enough — cleverer  than  most 
men,  if  he'd  only  study.  He  leaves  Woolwich 
in  a  couple  of  months  now — graduated.  How 
he  has  ever  stayed  there  as  long  as  he  has  is  a 
marvel.  Such  doings ! "  Stewart  shook  his 
head  even  as  he  smiled. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  It's  for 
his  father's  sake  and  my  mother's  that  he  has 
drawn  the  line  where  he  has!  There  isn't  an 
officer  or  an  instructor  who  don't  like  him, 
though.  He's  as  straight  as  a  string  where 

62 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


honor  is  concerned,  and  as  brave — Well !  You 
know  how  brave  he  could  be  as  a  child." 

Stewart  went  on. 

"As  for  the  cadets — they  swear  by  him — 
every  last  boy  of  them!  Rob  will  be  wild 
when  he  hears  you  are  in  England,  and 
will  probably  take  '  French  leave  ' !  "  Stewart 
laughed  again.  "  There !  That's  the  family 
history.  Now,  what  about  yourself  ?  " 

The  girl  ran  her  hand  thoughtfully  along  the 
railing. 

"  Papa  was  stationed  at  the  Fort  for  three 
years  after  you  left  us.  Since  then  we've  been 
moving  from  pillar  to  post — in  regular  Army 
fashion.  You  know  how  it  is  ?  "  She  raised 
her  eyes  to  Stewart  and  Stewart  nodded. 
"  He  was  ordered  to  Florida  and  then  to  Ar- 
kansas and  then  to  Alaska — "  she  laughed. 
"  He  sent  me  to  boarding  school  for  a  year  but 
I  couldn't  stand  not  seeing  him,  and  he  was 
even  worse  about  me.  After  that  he  taught 
me  himself — dear,  old  Daddy — he  taught  me 
everything  from  calculus  to  colt  riding.  It's 
been  a  wild  kind  of  a  life,  but  I've  missed  the 
old  Fort  and  the  sea.  None  of  the  other  places 
was  ever  much  like  home — "  Gary  raised  her 

63 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


eyes  from  the  railing  and  looked  soberly  toward 
the  receding  shore. 

Stewart  watched  her;  realizing  that  while 
she  had  not  grown  pretty  she  was  possessed  of 
an  indefinable  magnetism. 

Gary  went  on. 

"  Then  Daddy  got  notions  about  me — about 
my  lack  of  advantages,  social  and — otherwise," 
Gary  was  laughing  again.  "  He  was  retired 
last  month  and  now  he's  carrying  me  off  to 
Europe,  to  be  polished.  Am  I  such  a  rough 
specimen  ?  "  she  asked  Stewart,  suddenly. 

He  shook  his  head  so  gravely  in  denial  that 
she  smiled. 

"  There !  Of  course,  I  was  only  fooling ! 
And  so  I'm  going  over  to  your  great,  beautiful, 
strange  Old  World  to  be  *  finished  ' — as  if  any- 
one could  ever  be  '  finished '  as  -long  as  they 
live !  I'm  to  see  all  the  celebrated  Old  Masters 
and  to  visit  all  the  old  historic  places  and  see 
the  old  ruins — "  she  broke  off  suddenly,  "  I 
think  by  the  time  I've  finished,  I'll  be  very 
tired,  don't  you  ?  " 

"And  then?"  asked  Stewart. 

"Why,  then  Daddy  and  I  will  return  to 
America  and  have  a  little  home  somewhere — I 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


hope  near  the  Fort  where  I  lived  as  a  child; 
close  by  the  sea  and  the  capes  and  the  beach." 

They  were  silent  a  moment.  Behind  them 
was  the  merry  hum  of  voices  and  the  rapid 
movement  of  feet  hurrying  to  and  fro,  but 
for  that  moment  they  were  as  much  alone  as 
though  they  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  fort 
wall. 

"  My  home,"  said  Stewart,  looking  out  over 
the  sea  into  nothingness.  "  My  home  in  eastern 
Scotland  is  like  that.  Some  day  I  hope  you 
will  see  it.  If  you  ever  grow  very  homesick 
for  America  let  me  know,  and  I'll  try  to  ar- 
range to  run  up  there  for  a  day  with  you  and 
mother.  The  long  beach  will  remind  you  of 
home." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  gently. 

There  was  a  long  quiet  between  them,  and 
then  the  young  officer's  face  changed  suddenly 
and  he  broke  into  an  infectious  laugh. 

"  Oh,  the  guns — do  you  remember  the  guns, 
and  the  pinafores  and  the  sunbonnets? 
Weren't  you  eVer  caught?  " 

The  tall  girl  joined  in  with  his  laugh  and  the 
two — his  deep  and  hers  low — mingled  and 
drifted  back  to  the  passers-by  who  smiled  sym- 

65 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


pathetically  at  the  sound.  Gary  shook  her 
head. 

"  No — that  is,  not  until  long  afterwards.  It 
seems  that  the  Department  issued  orders  that 
the  big  show  guns  should  be  recast,  and  when 
they  were  taken  away  and  broken  up — they 
were  found  to  be  storehouses  for  a  small  girl's 
wardrobe !  Lieutenant  Burden  happened  to  be 
on  the  spot  and  the  story  he  tells — "  she  broke 
off,  still  laughing. 

"  Was  there  anything  left  of  the  things  ?  " 
asked  the  Briton,  amused. 

"  Yes,  indeed — some  were  pretty  well  pre- 
served! And  how  poor  old  Mammy  Amy 
would  worry  over  the  thief  who  dared  to  steal 
her  '  chile's  clothes ! '  It's  all  too  funny !  " 

"And  Mam'  Amy?" 

"  Dead.  She  followed  us  out  to  Alaska,  but 
she  died.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the 
climate." 

Stewart's  face  grew  a  little  grave. 

"  Lieutenant  Burden — wasn't  he  the  officer 
we  stole  the  boat  from  ?  " 

The  girl  nodded,  smiling. 

"  And  that  row !  Wasn't  that  a  row  we 
had  that  day,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  remember 

66 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  terrible  swim  Rob  took  and  how  he  saved 
us?" 

'  Yes.  And  how  you  comforted  me.  I 
went  to  sleep — didn't  I  ?  " 

'Yes;  and  how  ill  you  were  afterwards! 
Do  you  know  I've  never  forgiven  myself  for 
all  that.  I  was  thirteen,  and  the  oldest,  and 
should  have  had  more  horse  sense." 

"  What  children  we  were!  "  Gary  sighed. 

"  Are  you  wishing  the  time  back  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know — "  she  hesitated,  "No,  I 
suppose  not." 

Then: 

"  They  told  me  that  you  saved  me  in  that 
illness." 

"Did  they?" 

"  Do  you  believe  in  confessions  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  an  odd  smile. 

Gary  laughed. 

"  That  depends.  Well — what  have  you 
been  doing  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  I  kissed  you  that  day  when 
you  fell  asleep  in  the  boat— when  we  were 
facing  death  together — and  again  when  I  was 
fighting  death  for  you  that  long  night  ?  " 

"  You  wretch !     Well,  it  didn't  count  much 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


then,"  Gary's  eyes  were  twinkling,  "  You  were 
thirteen  and  I  was  only  seven.  Rob!  Im- 
agine Rob  ever  kissing  me !  " 

Stewart  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"  Look  out,  Rob  may  yet !  " 

"  Preposterous !  Don't  you  remember  when 
you  said  you  lived  in  Aberdeen  and  Rob  in 
Argyll,  and  I  innocently  asked  whether  they 
were  not  near  together?  How  indignant  Rob 
was!  And  then  I  crossly  retorted  that  they 
both  began  with  '  a ',  anyway,  and — "  she 
paused  for  breath,  and  Stewart  laughingly  took 
up  the  story  and  finished  it. 

"  And  how  Rob  scornfully  answered  that  so 
did  '  cat '  and  '  crow  ' !  He's  never  deigned  to 
tell  me  which  applied  to  which !  " 

"  That  was  Rob  all  over !  " 

Late  that  night  the  quartermaster  at  his 
lonely  wheel,  watched  a  tall  man  pacing  the 
decks. 

After  awhile  the  figure  paused  at  the  ship's 
railing  and  leaned  against  it  heavily,  looking 
out  over  the  moonlit  sea.  The  deep  throbbing 
of  the  mighty  engines  came  up  to  him  and  beat 
and  beat  against  his  senses. 

"  Twice,"  said  the  Briton,  slowly,  speaking 

68 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


to  the  stillness  of  the  stars  and  the  restlessness 
of  the  ocean,  "  Twice,  as  a  boy,  I  kissed  her, 
when  we  fought  death  together.  Some  day,  in 
an  hour  of  danger,  I  shall  kiss  her  again." 


II. 


GARY  was  singing.  Trevelyan  heard  her 
before  he  had  reached  the  second  flight 
of  stairs  in  the  lodgings.  The  clear 
contralto  voice  sifted  down  into  the  dark  pas- 
sage as  sunlight  sifts  into  a  ravine.  It  rose; 
swelled  higher  and  filled  the  entrance  way. 
Trevelyan's  pulses  kept  time  to  its  swinging 
measure  as  he  came  on  up  the  stairs,  and  quietly 
opened  the  door  of  the  little  sitting  room.  The 
measure  died  away.  Gary  finished  the  running 
accompaniment  and  rose  from  the  piano. 

"  Bravo ! "  cried  Trevelyan  from  the  door- 
way. 

"  You  have  deserted  me  of  late,"  she  said, 
reproachfully,  coming  forward  to  greet  him. 

"  Impossible !  Let  me  explain,  and  all  will 
be  forgiven — "  Trevelyan  cut  his  sentence 
short,  "  Why,  hello,  John,  where  did  you  come 
from?" 

He  nodded  indifferently  to  Stewart  standing 

70 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


by  the  window,  walked  over  to  a  table  and 
began  to  idly  turn  over  the  pages  of  a  book.  It 
was  annoying  always  to  find  Stewart  hanging 
around.  The  fact  that  Stewart  was  his  cousin, 
and  had  shared  everything  he  possessed  with 
him  since  he  had  been  a  child,  even  down  to  his 
mother,  did  not  count  for  anything  in  the  world, 
just  at  this  juncture.  Stewart's  mother  was 
all  right ;  indeed,  she  was  undoubtedly  the  very 
best  woman  who  ever  lived,  excepting  his  own 
mother  who  had  been  dead  so  long,  and  possi- 
bly Caryl  But  against  Stewart  himself  he 
bore  a  well-founded  grudge.  Stewart  had 
been  the  one  to  meet  Gary  on  the  steamer  and 
bring  her  and  her  father  to  London  and  help 
them  get  settled  in  lodgings  and  introduce  them 
to  his  friends.  That  was  bad  enough,  in  all 
conscience,  but  then  it  had  been  Stewart,  who 
had  constituted  himself  a  combined  walking 
Baedeker,  and  unfailing  friend  of  the  American 
officer  and  his  daughter.  That  had  been  in 
those  last  wretched  weeks  before  he  had  been 
graduated  from  Woolwich,  and  Stewart,  with 
that  confounded  sick  leave,  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  opportunity  offered.  Even  when 
Stewart  reported  for  duty  again,  his  transfer 

71 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


had  been  to  a  home  regiment,  and  in  the  few 
times  that  he,  Trevelyan,  had  seen  them  before 
his  graduation,  John  had  always  been  with 
Gary,  and  Gary  had  been  overflowing  with  their 
mutual  experiences.  Now  John  had  taken  the 
Captain  and  herself  to  dine  at  the  Albion,  in 
Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden ;  and  had  pointed 
out  the  traditional  places  occupied  by  Dickens, 
and  Sothern,  and  Toole,  and  the  rest.  Now, 
it  had  been  a  morning  ride  with  John,  on  Rot- 
ten Row,  when  Maggie,  John's  sister,  had  sent 
around  her  favorite  mount.  Again,  it  had 
been  a  trip  to  Hampstead  Heath  or  Richmond 
Park,  where,  from  the  famous  hill,  standing 
with  John,  she  had  looked  toward  the  towers 
of  Windsor ;  or  to  the  left  had  seen  on  the  hori- 
zon, the  bold  outline  of  the  Surrey  Downs.  It 
was  John — or  if  John  couldn't  possibly  manage 
it — it  was  John's  mother  or  John's  sister  who 
had  taken  her  everywhere.  She  had  been  to 
the  Derby  on  the  Stewarts'  coach ;  she  had  been 
to  Oxford  with  John's  sister,  and  met  Kenneth, 
John's  younger  brother;  she  had  visited  Strat- 
ford and  seen  Kenilworth,  and  generally 
"  done  "  London  almost  before  he  had  begun  to 
serve  his  sub-lieutenancy.  And  if  John  had 

72 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


been  unable  to  think  of  some  new  place  to  show 
her,  he  had  walked  with  her  down  the  Strand 
or  through  Fleet  street  or  Cheapside,  and  the 
two  of  them  had  retraced  Dickens's  or  Charles 
Lamb's  steps,  and  explored  all  the  little  out  of 
the  way  shops!  That  was  just  like  John! 
Trevelyan  detested  such  things,  and  Trevelyan 
detested  them  even  more  when  John  and  Gary 
had  done  them  together,  and  he  had  been  left 
out! 

That  sub-lieutenancy  was  another  thing  that 
rankled !  Stewart  had  served  his,  and  Stewart 
had  done  good  work  in  that  "  row  "  in  India, 
and  had  even  got  an  honorable  mention. 
Stewart  always  was  a  lucky  dog.  Trevelyan 
envied  Stewart  that  "  mention  "  more  than  he 
envied  any  man  in  the  world  anything.  Gary 
thought  so  much  of  that  "  mention,"  and  now 
Gary  was  going  away ! 

A  wild  throbbing  resentment  against  his  own 
position  in  the  affair;  against  Gary's  leaving 
England,  rose  up  within  him,  as  the  sea  rose  up 
and  beat  against  the  crags  at  home.  He  did 
not  define  it,  but  it  possessed  him,  as  did  the 
memory  of  Gary's  face  when  he  was  away  from 
her. 

73 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  let  the  book  fall  back  heavily  on  the  table 
and  walked  over  and  leaned  his  elbows  on  the 
mantel,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  looked 
moodily  into  the  open  fire. 

Once  Gary  tried  to  draw  him  into  the  con- 
versation, but  Trevelyan  refused  to  be  won 
from  the  depths  of  his  own  depression,  to  the 
genial  atmosphere  pervading  the  little  room, 
and  Gary,  used  to  his  ways,  let  him  alone.  She 
had  looked  at  John  and  shaken  her  head. 

"  I  can't  do  a  thing  with  him  to-night,"  it 
had  said,  but  Stewart,  grown  wonderfully 
quick-witted  in  regard  to  Gary,  fancied  that  he 
heard  her  sigh. 

Outside  the  daylight  faded  and  a  heavy  fog 
crept  up  and  fell  over  the  Thames  and  London 
like  a  pall.  Here  and  there  a  street  lamp  flick- 
ered faintly  through  the  mist,  and  the  rumble 
of  carriage  wheels,  heard,  though  unseen, 
reached  them,  and  Gary  lighted  the  big  red 
lamp,  preparatory  to  afternoon  tea  and  the 
Captain's  return.  Once  she  went  to  the  win- 
dow to  look  for  her  father,  pressing  her  face 
against  the  glass,  but  she  could  not  see  through 
the  heavy,  yellow  mist.  Trevelyan  could  hear 
her  and  John  talking  in  the  window  recess,  al- 

74 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


though  he  could  not  distinguish  what  they  were 
saying.  Once  Gary  laughed.  The  sound  irri- 
tated him. 

After  awhile  Gary  came  back  into  the  room 
and  began  to  handle  the  tea-cups  absent-mind- 
edly. Her  table  was  close  to  the  fire,  and  Tre- 
velyan,  by  turning  his  head,  could  watch  the 
ruddy  reflection  play  over  her  face.  He  turned 
back  to  the  glowing  logs. 

"  Sugar?  "  asked  Gary  suggestively,  a  little 
later  of  Trevelyan. 

"  No,"  said  Trevelyan,  moodily,  "  No  sugar 
and  no  tea !  " 

Gary  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You're  impossible,  to-day,"  she  said, 
"Bread  and  butter,  John?" 

After  awhile  Stewart  prepared  to  leave. 
Trevelyan  still  leaned  against  the  mantel,  his 
face  turned  to  the  fire.  He  knew  Stewart  was 
going,  but  he  did  not  move.  From  the  door- 
way he  could  hear  Stewart's  voice  calling  out 
good-bye. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  called  back,  shortly. 

Gary  returned  to  the  tea  table,  paused  and 
looked  at  Trevelyan's  back  in  an  uncertain  way. 
Trevelyan  was  acutely  conscious  of  her  near- 

75 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ness.  She  sat  down,  resting  her  intertwined 
fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looked 
down  at  them. 

"Well?" 

Trevelyan  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  quiet 
voice  and  faced  her,  still  resting  one  elbow  on 
the  mantel. 

"  Well !  "  he  repeated,  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in 
his  voice,  "  It  isn't  '  well '  at  all !  It's  as  con- 
foundedly bad  as  it  can  be !  Here  you're  going 
to  leave  London  day  after  to-morrow,  to  be 
gone — " 

"  Three  months,"  said  Gary. 

"Exactly!" 

"  I'll  be  back  before  you  know  it !  " 

Trevelyan  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  think  so?"  Then:  "  I  can  tell  you 
how  long  two  months  can  be!  I  learned  that 
at  Woolwich  before  I  graduated,  and  after  I 
had  seen  you."  He  stopped  abruptly  and  beat 
his  foot  impatiently  on  the  fender. 

"  Nonsense !  You're  going  to  be  a  British 
officer.  Where's  your  backbone  ?" 

"  I've  backbone  enough — there's  no  trouble 
about  that!"  Trevelyan  laughed  oddly.  "I 
could  fight  all  right.  I  could  face  danger.  I 


The  Potter  and  the  'Clay 


could  lead  a  charge  into  the  mouth  of  the  can- 
non !  I've  backbone  enough !  " 

He  had  turned  to  her  full  as  he  was  speaking. 
His  face  was  aflame  with  the  possibilities  his 
words  had  awakened.  It  was  transformed 
back  into  the  face  of  the  boy  who  conquered  the 
storm  and  the  sea  and  death,  and  it  was  burning 
with  a  newer  passion  still. 

Gary's  eyes  fell  before  the  look  in  his  and 
rested  on  her  folded  hands.  After  a  little  she 
began  to  trace  an  intricate  pattern  on  the  table 
with  her  forefinger.  A  weight  of  fear  was 
resting  on  her  breast. 

Trevelyan  stood  silent  looking  down  at  her 
for  a  moment,  and  then  he  turned  sharply  and 
went  over  to  the  window.  The  perfume  of  the 
violets  she  wore  possessed  him.  The  clock  on 
the  mantel  struck  the  half  hour,  and  a  log  broke 
noisily  on  the  hearth.  Gary  looked  toward 
him.  The  oppressive  fear  had  passed. 

"  There  will  be  a  month  in  Switzerland ! 
Think  of  it — the  Alps  at  last!  Three  weeks 
of  Paris;  three  more  of  Ireland,  and  two  in 
Scotland  with  the  Camerons.  Did  you  know 
I  was  going  to  your  Scotland  and  to  Argyll  ?  " 

Trevelyan  turned  away  from  the  window. 

77 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"No.     Since  when?" 

"  The  Camerons  asked  me  last  week.  They 
are  to  have  a  house  party,  I  think.  They  asked 
John,  too — " 

Trevelyan  bit  his  lip. 

"  Is  John  going?  " 

"  Not  for  the  full  time,  but  he  hopes  to  get 
a  three  days'  leave.'" 

Trevelyan  came  back  to  the  fire  and 
drummed  on  the  mantel. 

"  When  we  were  children,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly, "  down  at  the  Fort,  I  used  to  tell  you 
about  Scotland.  I  am  glad  you  are  to  see  it. 
You  will  like  it !  And  when  you  watch  the  sea 
beat  against  the  crags,  and  the  breakers  tossing 
their  white  heads,  you  can  think  of  me,  remem- 
bering it  used  to  be  my  home.  I  hope  you  will 
see  a  storm,"  Trevelyan  went  on,  "  such  a 
storm  as  I  used  to  glory  in  as  a  little  chap! 
They  don't  have  such  storms  anywhere  else,  I 
think!" 

He  stopped  short,  and  looked  hard  at  the  fire. 

"  The  Camerons'  place  is  within  driving  dis- 
tance of  my  home.  If  I  can  get  off  for  a  day 
will  you  let  me  take  you  there  ?  I  want  you  to 
see  it,  and  to  meet  old  Mactier,  and  go  with  me 

78 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


into  the  caves  where  I  used  to  play  as  a  boy, 
and  climb  the  crags,  way  up  to  their  topmost 
peaks,  and  breathe  the  freedom  that  is  in  the 
air!" 

Gary  sprang  up,  flinging  out  her  hands. 
There  was  an  odd  pulsing  in  her  throat. 

"  Go !  of  course  I'll  go !  "  she  cried,  and  then 
the  pulsing  grew  and  grew,  and  choked  her. 

At  six  Trevelyan  left.  She  did  not  meet  his 
eyes  in  parting,  and  Trevelyan  missed  her  ban- 
tering voice,  that  usually  followed  him  down 
stairs. 

"  It's  Stewart,"  he  told  himself  with  passion- 
ate resentment,  and  he  stumbled  over  the  lower 
step  and  swore  at  the  darkness. 

Gary  went  back  into  the  empty  room,  over 
to  the  mantel  and  looked  into  the  fire,  as  Trev- 
elyan had  done.  She  could  hear  the  echo  of 
the  closing  front  door.  Outside,  the  fog  grew 
thicker.  Inside,  the  red  lamp  threw  its  color- 
ing on  the  crimson  roses  Stewart  had  brought 
that  day,  making  them  more  glorious  still,  and 
the  heat  of  the  fire  intensified  the  odor  of  the 
violets  on  the  woman's  breast.  Stewart  had 
brought  the  violets  too. 

Gary  turned  away  from  the  fire,  and  moved 

79 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


restlessly  about  the  room,  fixing  a  chair  here, 
straightening  a  book  there,  and  fingering  some 
familiar  object.  As  she  passed  the  open  piano, 
she  hesitated,  put  out  one  finger  and  struck  a 
key.  The  sound  vibrated  through  the  quiet 
room,  deep  and  full  and  strong.  A  bar  of  an 
old  Scotch  song  rose  in  her  throat  and  broke. 
She  closed  the  piano  hastily.  Once  she  leaned 
over  the  roses. 

"  Dear  John,"  she  murmured,  and  her  hands 
touched  for  a  moment  the  violets  on  her  breast. 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  fire,  and  stood 
wide-eyed  and  silent,  looking  into  the  heart  of 
it.  She  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  violets'  per- 
fume, but  it  was  Trevelyan's  face  she  saw  in 
the  flames. 


80 


III. 


THERE  was  a  storm  chill  in  the  air. 
Trevelyan  readjusted  the  carriage 
robe  that  had  slipped  away  from  Gary, 
and  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  driving  coat. 
Now  and  again  he  glanced  at  Gary.  The 
girl's  face  was  turned  away  and  she  was  look- 
ing out  over  the  gray  crags  to  the  grayer  sea 
beyond.  The  last  three  months  had  wrought 
an  indefinable  change  in  her.  Treveylan  had 
noticed  it  on  his  arrival  at  the  Camerons'  that 
morning.  He  wondered  vaguely  if  it  had 
anything  to  do  with  travel  and  the  process  of 
"  polishing "  to  which  Gary  so  often  banter- 
ingly  referred.  Well  he  was  not  going  to 
worry  over  it.  He  had  only  one  day  and  he 
meant  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

He  had  written  the  Camerons  he  was  com- 
ing, and  had  not  even  waited  for  an  answer. 
He  had  announced  his  intention  and  it  was 
enough.  He  had  known  Tom  Cameron  since 
they  wore  kilts  together,  and  back  of  their 

81 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


friendship,  his  mother's  family  had  known  the 
Camerons  for  generations.  Somewhere  in  the 
history  of  the  houses,  there  had  been  an  inter- 
marriage. That  had  been  the  enduring  seal 
on  the  intimacy.  The  Scotch  are  clannish. 

It  had  taken  him  hours  to  reach  the  Camer- 
ons'. It  would  take  him  hours  to  return.  But 
this  one  afternoon,  at  least,  was  his.  After  it, 
might  come  the  deluge.  After  it — probably 
would  come  the  deluge!  He  wasn't  feeling 
very  sure  of  himself  or  of  his  own  self  power. 
After  a  man  has  been  in  torment  for  three 
months — 

Tom  Cameron's  horse  knew  the  road  well — 
almost  as  well  as  Trevelyan  did — and  kept 
up  a  steady  pace,  and  Tom  Cameron's  cart  was 
comfortable. 

John  was  expected  that  afternoon  for  three 
days.  Well ;  Gary  would  not  be  there  to  wel- 
come him.  Cary  would  be  with  him.  Stew- 
art might  have  her — undoubtedly  would  have 
her,  for  those  three  days,  but  to-day — this  af- 
ternoon, was  his. 

The  Camerons,  learned  in  the  signs  of  the 
sky,  had  demurred  at  the  storm  chill  in  the  air 
and  the  threatening  clouds,  when  after  an  early 

82 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


lunch,  Trevelyan  and  the  American  girl  had 
stepped  into  the  cart.  Trevelyan,  however,  had 
no  intention  of  having  his  well  laid  plans  frus- 
trated, and  in  his  masterful  way,  had  over-ruled 
the  objections.  The  storm  was  a  possibility. 
His  return  next  morning  at  daybreak,  a  neces- 
sity. Let  the  storm  come.  He  defied  it. 

Gary  shivered.  Trevelyan  noticed  it  and 
leaned  toward  her. 

"You  are  cold?" 

Gary  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  gray 
crags  and  the  gray  sea.  Trevelyan's  were  near 
her  own.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  faltered,  "  It  must  be  Scotland — 
the  Scotland  you  told  me  of  as  a  child.  Once, 
long  ago  I  fought  you  about  it.  If  I  had 
dreamed — if  I  had  known — "  her  voice  faded 
into  the  boom  of  the  nearing  surf  and  she 
turned  her  eyes  away  from  Trevelyan's,  coast- 
ward  again. 

The  music  of  her  voice  and  the  roar  of  the 
ocean  mingled  and  surged  over  Trevelyan. 

"  God !  "  he  said  under  his  breath. 


IV. 


AS  Trevelyan  and  the  girl  drove  up  the 
long  entrance  way  and  neared  the 
house,  they  could  distinguish  through 
the  faint  Scotch  mist  that  had  fallen,  the  out- 
line of  Mactier  waiting  for  them  at  the  door. 

The  old  retainer  hurried  forward  to  wel- 
come them. 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  'tis  gude  to  see  ye !  My 
heart's  been  sore  for  a  sight  o'  thy  face  this 
lang  time !  "  he  cried  to  Trevelyan. 

Trevelyan  jumped  down  from  the  cart. 

"Hello,  Mactier!"  he  cried.  "Jove!  But 
it's  good  to  see  you  again !  " 

Then  he  turned  to  Gary  and  helped  her  to  the 
ground. 

"  This  is  Mactier,"  he  said,  as  one  saying  all 
that  is  sufficient.  "  Mactier,  I  used  to  tell  Miss 
Gary  about  you  when  I  was  a  little  shaver." 

"  Aweel  ye  were  ever  a  mindful  lad  o'  me !  " 
The  old  man  smiled. 

He  opened  the  door  for  them,  and  stood  to 
one  side  to  let  them  enter. 

84 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Tis  a  bad  day  ye  have  for  seeing  the  old 
place,"  he  said  as  they  passed  him. 

"  You  can  bring  the  horse  around  in  an 
hour,"  called  Trevelyan  as  the  old  man  drove 
away. 

Then  Trevelyan  went  back  to  Gary.  The 
girl  was  standing  at  the  furthest  end  of  the 
great  hall,  looking  out  of  the  window.  She 
could  hear  the  beat  of  the  sea  on  the  near-by 
crags  and  through  the  faint  mist  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  water. 

Mactier  had  opened  the  long-closed  blinds 
and  the  light  seemed  concentrated  around  the 
figure  of  the  girl.  Trevelyan  tore  his  riding 
gloves  from  his  hands  and  bent  and  unbent  his 
fingers  rapidly.  "  If  I  had  dreamed — if  I  had 
known — "  He  reached  her  side. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  a  gloomy  day  we've  struck/' 
he  said  quietly,  "  but  I'm  in  hopes  the  mist 
won't  last.  On  clear  days  from  here  you  can 
see  the  highest  crag  of  all.  It's  where  I  used 
to  spend  half  my  days,  as  a  little  shaver, — up 
there  on  the  top.  It  was  my  eyrie.  I  used  to 
be  a  robber  king  and  a  shipwrecked  mariner 
and  a  Viking  all  rolled  in  one." 

Trevelyan    laughed,    bending   forward   and 

85 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


nearer  to  her  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  as 
though  to  penetrate  the  mist.  Gary  leaned 
against  the  frame  of  the  window  listening. 

"  When  I  got  a  bit  older,"  Trevelyan's  voice 
fell  heavily  on  the  silence  of  the  big  lonely  hall, 
"  I  used  to  climb  up  there — to  get  away  from 
everyone,  and  where  no  one  could  find  me ;  and 
I  would  hide  up  there,  and  sit  by  the  hour, 
looking  out  at  the  sea  and  watching  the  white 
spray  breaking  below  me.  And  then  later  I 
used  to  try  and  think  of  what  love  -meant — 
what  love  could  be — if  I  should  ever  love — " 

He  turned  away  abruptly  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  hall.  After  a  little  he  came  back  to 
Gary,  who  had  not  stirred. 

"And  sometimes  I  used  to  dream  of  a  woman 
who  would  some  day  come  into  my  life — and 
I  used  to  crawl  to  the  edge  of  the  crag  and  lean 
over  and  look  into  the  white  foam  below,  until 
I  got  dizzy  —  looking  for  her  face.  It  seemed 
her  face  must  be  in  the  white  foam — foolish, 
wasn't  it?" 

Gary  ran  her  finger  along  the  ledge  of  the 
window. 

"  We  all  have  our  dreams." 

Trevelyan  watched  her,  as  she  turned  her 

86 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


face  again  to  the  window.  The  mist  outside 
increased  and  seemed  to  muffle  the  beat  of  the 
sea  and  all  the  sounds  of  nature,  and  it  hung 
around  her  and  softened  her  face  into  wonder- 
ful curves.  He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her 
suddenly.  He  could  have  crushed  that  face  in 
his  hands,  bringing  it  up  to  his  own — 

"  Mactier  will  be  around  in  an  hour,"  he 
said  after  a  while  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  "  and 
then  I'll  drive  you  about  the  place  a  bit  before 
we  return.  We  can  easily  make  it  and  be  back 
for  dinner." 

"  Yes  ?  "  asked  Gary,  absent-mindedly. 

"  Come !  Wake  up !  And  look  around  you ! 
Isn't  this  a  fine  old  hall  ?  "  But  Trevelyan's 
voice  lacked  enthusiasm. 

Gary  turned  and  looked  around  her.  Her 
dream  spell  had  passed.  The  odd  throbbing  in 
her  throat,  she  had  felt  long  ago  in  London, 
the  evening  she  had  bidden  Trevelyan  good- 
bye, returned  with  triple  force.  A  wave  of 
color  swept  over  the  usual  pallor  of  her  skin; 
her  eyes  were  shining.  Gary  was  transformed. 

"  Fine?  "  her  voice  pulsed  with  the  enthusi- 
asm Trevelyan's  had  lacked.  "  It's  the  finest 
old  hall  in  all  the  world!  The  dearest  old 

87 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


home !  Take  me  over  it  —  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom,  and  show  me  where  you  and  John  and 
Tom  Cameron  used  to  play !  " 

Trevelyan  led  her  from  room  to  room ;  pass- 
ing quickly  this  one,  that  held  memories  of  his 
mother ;  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  another,  to 
tell  the  story  of  the  Scotch  boy's  playtime;  to 
show  to  her  the  first  stag's  head,  shot  when 
hunting  with  Mactier.  Trevelyan  told  the 
story  well,  for  he  loved  with  all  the  unyielding 
strength  of  an  unyielding  nature,  the  memories 
his  words  called  up.  Now  it  was  how  Tom 
and  he  had  slipped  out  of  the  window  one  night 
and  scaled  the  ivy  covered  turret  wall,  that 
they  might  investigate  the  old  cave  down  at 
the  water's  edge,  by  the  light  of  the  waning 
moon.  Mactier  had  told  them  strange  tales  of 
the  happenings  in  the  cave  when  the  moon  was 
on  the  wane.  Again  it  was  the  day  he  had 
stumbled  with  his  gun  and  the  bullet  had 
entered  his  thigh;  how  old  Mactier  had  flung 
him  across  his  shoulders,  and  borne  him  home 
through  the  darkness  of  the  falling  night. 
Again  it  was  the  morning  his  mother  had  died ; 
how  he  had  been  awakened  by  the  hurrying  of 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


many  feet,  and  starting  up  in  bed  had  found  his 
father  bending  over  him,  calling  him  by  name. 

Never  had  the  girl  known  Trevelyan  to  be  so 
eloquent ;  never  had  she  seen  him  as  he  was  to- 
day. Now  Trevelyan's  voice  was  blithe  with 
the  blitheness  of  glad  remembered  things ;  now 
it  broke  with  feeling,  or  vibrated  with  the  pas- 
sion of  reviving  scenes  long  dead  to  life.  He 
seemed  not  to  be  speaking  of  himself.  He  was 
telling  her  the  story  of  an  English  boy,  Scottish 
bred;  of  his  wild  escapades;  of  his  love  of 
freedom  and  unrestricted  things ;  of  his  dangers 
and  his  hopes;  of  what  he  meant  to  be  when 
he  became  a  man! 

And  Gary,  held  fast  by  the  magic  of  the  story, 
felt  her  pulses  throb ;  her  being  thrill.  An  un- 
reasonable regret  that  she  had  not  been  a  Scot- 
tish child  to  follow  where  he  led,  up  the  high 
crags  or  down  into  the  black  caves,  took  pos- 
session of  her;  and  she  recalled  a  picture  of  a 
sea  churned  into  foam;  of  a  boat  drifting  out 
toward  the  waste  of  ocean ;  and  above  the  gray 
surface  of  the  stone-hued  waters,  a  boy's  head 
turned  landward. 

Once,  in  following  Trevelyan  from  one  room 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


to  another,  she  glanced  out  of  the  window  and 
noticed  vaguely  that  the  heavy  rain  drops  lay 
upon  the  glass.  Later,  she  was  conscious  of 
the  dull  booming  of  thunder,  echoing  among 
the  nearby  crags  and  losing  itself  in  the  beat  of 
the  surf.  Then  a  flash  of  vivid  lightning  lit 
up  the  sudden  darkness  that  had  fallen  on  the 
room. 

Trevelyan  rushed  to  the  window.  The 
thralldom  of  the  Scotch  boy's  story  was  upon 
him  still. 

"  It's  a  storm !  "  he  cried,  "  It's  a  storm  come 
to  welcome  me !  " 
He  turned  to  Gary. 

"  Come  here !  "  he  commanded,  "  where  you 
can  watch  the  sea  and  the  storm  fight  it  out 
together ! " 

She  came  instantly. 

The  darkness  increased  until  they  could  not 
distinguish  each  other's  faces.  The  thunder 
came  and  beat  itself  against  the  crags  and  spent 
itself.  Now  and  again  they  could  see,  by  the 
glare  of  the  prolonged  lightning,  the  waters 
lashed  into  a  white  fury.  Once,  by  its  light, 
she  looked  at  Trevelyan's  face.  It  was  white 
and  he  was  breathing  deeply.  He  was  looking 

90 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


seaward  and  seemed  unconscious  of  her  pres- 
ence. Once,  he  flung  out  his  hand  and  it 
touched  hers.  It  was  colder  than  the  storm 
chill  in  the  air.  Once,  she  looked  at  him  again, 
and  he,  turning,  met  her  eyes.  Some  power 
as  mighty  as  the  storm  held  her  look  to  his,  and 
then  above  the  beating  of  the  thunder  on  the 
crags  and  the  booming,  of  the  surf,  she  heard 
his  voice. 

"  Just  you  and  I  and  the  storm !  You  and 
I  in  all  the  world — all  that  the  world  holds !  " 
She  felt  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder ;  she  felt  its 
coldness  through  her  heavy  dress  and  she 
shrank  away  from  him,  her  voice  and  her  words 
broken,  with  a  nameless  fear. 

Above  the  storm  she  could  hear  Trevelyan 
laugh. 

"  Let  you  go,  when  I've  got  you  at  last ! 
Let  you  go  when  your  face  has  haunted  me 
through  all  the  days  and  all  the  nights  of  the 
long  months!  Let — you — go!" 

"Oh,  Robert!" 

"  Oh,  you  think  I'm  mad !  Well,  perhaps  I 
am  for  love  of  you.  You  haunt  me.  You 
possess  me.  It  was  your  face  I  dreamed  of  in 
the  foam.  There!  don't  tremble  so!  I  won't 

91 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


hurt  you,  child ! "     The  thunder  drowned  his 
voice. 

"  Do  you  dream  what  you  are  to  me  or  could 
make  of  me  ?  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  hold 
a  man's  soul  in  your  hands  ?  " 

The  spell  of  his  words  lifted.  The  instinct 
of  an  unknown  danger  possessed  her.  She 
slipped  away  in  the  blackness  toward  the  door. 
The  silence  grew  and  grew. 

Gradually  the  darkness  lifted  and  the  thunder 
and  the  boom  of  the  surf  lessened  and  the  light- 
ning came  at  long  and  longer  intervals. 
Gary  became  acutely  conscious  of  every  sound. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  she  heard  voices  and 
the  echo  of  men's  footfalls.  She  kept  her  eyes 
away  from  Trevelyan  who  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her.  Danger  lay  that  way. 

Then  the  spell  of  Trevelyan's  nearness  crept 
over  her  again.  She  tried  to  fight  it  off,  trem- 
bling. She  moved  a  step  toward  him,  one  hand 
pressed  close  to  her  breast.  Then  she  paused, 
arrested  by  a  voice. 

"Robert!     Gary!     Caryl" 

The  sound  echoed  down  the  great  hall,  across 
the  still  deserted  rooms,  to  the  study  where 
they  stood. 

92 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan  turned  sharply. 

"John!" 

Gary's  hand  crept  from  her  breast  to  her  face 
and  she  covered  her  eyes. 

"John!" 

Trevelyan  crossed  the  space  between  them. 

"Gary!" 

The  woman  shrank  back. 

"  Don't — you   frighten   me !  "   she  moaned. 

Trevelyan  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

"  Gary !  Gary !  Take  that  back !  How 
can  love  frighten?  See,  I  love  you — love 
you!" 

She  was  in  his  arms  and  he  was  leaning  over 
her,  his  mouth  close  to  her  face. 

"  Gary !  "  he  whispered. 

Down  the  long  hall,  through  the  silence  of 
the  deserted  rooms,  came  the  voice. 

"Gary!     Where  are  you?     Gary!" 

She  wrenched  herself  out  of  Trevelyan's 
arms. 

"  You  are  a  coward !  "  she  said  slowly. 

A  wild  tide  of  passion  leaped  up  in  Trevel- 
yan. 

"  How  dare  you  call  me  a  coward,"  he  said, 
and  his  lips  could  hardly  articulate,  "  If  you 

93 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


were  not  a  woman — "  he  choked  and  his  voice 
died  away. 

Gary  moved  nearer  to  the  door.  Once,  she 
turned  her  pale  face  and  looked  at  Trevelyan. 
Trevelyan  stood  rigid  and  mute  where  she  had 
left  him,  the  knuckles  of  one  hand  pressed  to 
his  mouth.  She  faltered. 

"  Gary !     Gary !     Where  are  you  ?  " 

She  turned,  her  thumb  and  forefinger  press- 
ing her  throat. 

"  Here !  "  she  cried.  Then,  louder :  "  Here !  " 

Trevelyan  passed  her,  and  strode  through 
the  deserted  rooms  into  the  great  hall. 

"  Gary  is  in  the  study,"  he  said  to  the  group 
of  men  he  found  there,  "  Hello  Tom !  " 

"  John  arrived  an  hour  after  you  left,"  said 
Cameron,  regarding  Trevelyan's  rigid  face 
curiously,  "  and  when  the  storm  came  up  noth- 
ing would  do  but  that  he  must  come  for  you 
both  in  a  closed  carriage.  I  knew  you'd  be  safe 
enough — if  necessary  find  shelter  with  some  of 
the  tenant's  wives.  But  John — "  - 

Trevelyan  turned  to  old  Mactier. 

"  You  can  close  up  the  house,"  he  said 
shortly. 

Stewart  found  the  girl  standing  in  the  study. 

94 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  went  up  to  her  and  drew  her  arm  through 
his  and  quietly  led  her  down  the  long  dark  pas- 
sage that  connected  with  the  great  hall.  He 
could  feel  that  she  was  trembling.  He  patted 
her  hand  soothingly. 

"There,    there!     child.     It's    all    right.     I 
know!" 


95 


V. 


INSTEAD  of  returning  to  London  from  the 
Camerons'  place  in  Scotland,  Gary  and 
the  Captain  went  to  the  south  of  France. 
Just  what  it  was  that  had  suddenly  made  Gary 
so  persistent  in  her  desire  not  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, was  not  known.  Trevelyan,  indeed  fan- 
cied that  he  knew,  when  he  had  finished  read- 
ing Gary's  brief  note  telling  of  their  change  of 
plans  and  their  intended  prolonged  absence 
from  England,  and  he  cursed  the  folly  that  had 
separated  him  from  Gary  in  the  long  months 
that  lay  ahead. 

To  Stewart,  and  indeed  to  the  world  at  large, 
she  gave  the  old,  threadbare  excuse — the  Lon- 
don climate.  If  Stewart  ever  suspected  other- 
wise, he  kept  it  to  himself. 

The  Captain,  like  Trevelyan,  fancied  he  knew 
something  of  the  cause,  but  the  Captain  was  a 
wise  man,  and  he  asked  no  more  than  Gary 
chose  to  impart — which  was  next  to  noth- 
ing at  all.  Still  Gary  wanted  to  get  away  from 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


London  and  Gary  was  not  given  to  whims. 
The  climate  was  a  sufficiently  good  excuse. 
The  fact  that  it  was  an  excuse  made  no  differ- 
ence to  the  Captain,  and  to  the  south  of  France 
they  went. 

They  were  gone  all  winter,  traveling  in  a 
desultory  way,  since  there  was  no  call  for  haste 
and  Gary's  pleasure  was  the  chief  consider- 
ation. And  Gary  delighted  in  the  quaint  old 
towns  and  grew  enthusiastic  again  over  the 
trifles  of  life,  as  she  had  done  as  a  child  down 
by  the  sea-coast  fort,  or  out  on  the  western 
plains.  Now  it  was  a  month  at  Cette,  on  the 
Gulf  of  Naples ;  then  it  was  down  to  the  East- 
ern Pyrenees,  and  over,  and  a  month  in  Spain, 
and  back  again  to  France  and  up  to  Bayonne 
and  Bordeaux,  and  then  to  Paris  by  easy  stages, 
and  then  on  to  Calais  and  to  England. 

There  were  letters  from  Stewart  awaiting 
to  welcome  her,  whenever  he  knew  her  next 
stopping  place,  and  they  often  enclosed  notes 
of  introduction  to  people  who  could  add  either 
to  her  comfort  or  her  pleasure.  Stewart  knew 
the  country  like  a  book.  He  had  toured  it  on 
foot  after  his  Eton  days.  As  for  London — 
London  was  duller  than  he  had  ever  known  it; 

97 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  fogs  were  unusually  frequent  and  heavy, 
and  he  was  glad  that  she  had  escaped  them. 
He  hoped  she  was  enjoying  herself;  she  must 
surely  see  such  and  such  a  thing,  or  take  such 
and  such  a  drive.  He  had  not  taken  it  in  years, 
himself,  but  she  would  tell  him  all  about  it.  He 
supposed  she  would  be  able  to  brush  up  his 
French  when  she  returned.  By  the  way,  when 
was  she  returning  to  England? 

She  returned  to  England  in  the  late  spring 
and  in  all  that  time  Trevelyan  had  not  written 
her  a  line.  He  was  at  the  station  to  meet  her 
though,  and  it  was  he  who  took  possession  of 
her  while  the  Captain  and  Stewart  went  to  see 
about  the  luggage. 

Indeed,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  London 
observed  that  it  was  Trevelyan  who  monopo- 
lized the  American  officer's  daughter.  It  was 
Trevelyan  who  dropped  in  to  afternoon  tea 
with  unfailing  regularity,  and  fought  with  her, 
and  scolded  her,  and  laughed  with  her,  and  took 
her  driving,  or  riding  on  the  Row.  His  su- 
perior officer  fretted  and  speculated  at  the 
change  in  the  young  Engineer,  until  he  passed 
him  one  day  with  Gary. 

"  There's    a    brilliant    young    chap    being 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ruined,"  he  said  crossly  to  his  aide.  "  Served 
out  his  sub-lieutenancy  finely,  and  has  behaved 
this  winter  like  an  officer  and  a  gentleman. 
Now  the  barracks  can't  hold  him,  and  he 
shirks  like  a  weak-livered  chicken.  Who's  the 
girl?" 

"  An  American — the  daughter  of  a  retired 
officer.  I  fancy  you've  often  seen  them  to- 
gether— elderly  man  with  iron  gray  hair;  sat 
next  to  you,  but  one,  at  the  Stewarts'  dinner." 

The  aide  broke  off  and  looked  fixedly  after 
Trevelyan. 

"  Some  day  in  danger — "  he  said,  as  if  to 
himself. 


99 


VI. 

GARY  was  drumming  idly  on  the  piano. 
Her  attitude  was  the  personification  of 
listlessness.       When  the  Captain  had 
spoken  of  it  that  morning  she  said  it  was  "  the 
spring  feeling  in  the  air." 

The  Captain  smiled  as  he  walked  down  the 
stairs  of  the  lodgings. 

"  It's  London  climate — fog  and  rain — in 
the  winter;  and  it's  London  sunshine  in  the 
spring !  " 

Cary  continued  to  drum  on  the  piano  after  he 
left.  Then  she  let  her  hands  fall  from  the 
keys  and  looked  absently  about  the  room.  She 
supposed  Trevelyan  would  drop  in  later  or  any- 
how in  the  evening.  Trevelyan  had  been  irre- 
proachable since  her  return  —  since  that  day  in 
Scotland. 

Presently  she  dashed  into  a  popular  song  and 
sung  it  with  a  touch  of  the  old  gleeful  enthusi- 
asm she  had  left  behind  in  France.  Trevelyan 
loathed  that  song. 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  twirled  around 
on  her  stool.  Someone  was  knocking. 

100 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"Come  in,"  she  shouted,  not  rising,  and 
thinking  it  was  either  Robert  or  John. 

The  landlady  entered  bearing  a  card.  Gary 
held  out  her  hand  for  it. 

"  But  my  father  is  out.  Please  tell  Captain 
Trevelyan — " 

"  But  miss,  the  Captain  asked  for  you." 

Cary  rose. 

"Forme?" 

Then  she  laughed. 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  mistaken,  but  if  you'll 
ask  Captain  Trevelyan  up,  I'll  explain." 

She  remained  standing  by  the  door  of  their 
little  sitting  room.  She  could  hear  the  Eng- 
lish officer  tramping  slowly  and  heavily  up  the 
stairs.  She  remembered  Robert  telling  her  of 
the  charge  his  father  had  led  at  Inkerman,  and 
how  he  had  gotten  that  wound  in  his  hip. 
After  awhile  she  caught  sight  of  the  top  of 
the  officer's  white  head.  She  went  forward  to 
meet  him  and  led  him  into  the  room  and  rolled 
up  a  big  leather  chair. 

"  It's  Papa's  favorite,"  she  said,  smiling  and 
standing  with  one  hand  resting  invitingly  on 
the  big  tufted  back. 

The  English  officer  smiled  back  from  under 

101 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


his  shaggy  brows,  and  sank  into  the  great  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  genuine  comfort.  Gary  drew  up 
a  chair  and  sat  down  near  him. 

"  Papa  is  out,"  she  said.  "  He  has  only  just 
gone,  too.  I'm  so  sorry.  If  you  care  to  wait 
— and  perhaps  later  let  me  give  you  a  cup  of 
tea — "  she  went  on  with  a  certain  charming 
spontaneity,  "  John  says  my  tea  is  almost  like 
the  tea  the  English  girls  make — "  she  ques- 
tioned Trevelyan's  father  with  her  laughing 
eyes. 

"And  what  does  my  boy  say  about  your 
tea  ?  "  asked  the  English  officer,  watching  her 
curiously. 

"  Robert  ?  Oh,  Robert  never  says  anything 
nice  about  it.  He  never  says  nice  things  to 
me  anyway,"  Gary  pouted.  "  But  I  notice  he 
nearly  always  drinks  three  cups  when  he  comes 
and  after  all  I  believe  that  counts  for  a  good 
deal — don't  you  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly — for  a  good  deal  of  tea ! 
And  does  he  often  come  to  drink  it  with  you  ?  " 

Gary  laughed. 

"  Oh — frequently,"  she  said  vaguely. 

The  old  British  officer  drew  patterns  on  the 
floor  with  his  cane  and  was  silent. 

102 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Gary  looked  at  him  stealthily  from  under 
her  long  lashes.  She  had  only  met  Trevel- 
yan's  father  when  he  had  called  formally  on 
their  coming  to  England,  or  sometimes  when  he 
stopped  by  to  take  the  Captain  to  drive,  and 
once  at  the  Stewarts',  at  dinner.  He  had  al- 
ways inspired  her  with  a  certain  awe.  It 
might  have  been  his  lameness  which  Gary  was 
wont  to  regard  as  a  badge  of  an  honor  legion, 
or  simply  his  brusque  manner,  not  unlike  his 
son's,  but  lacking  much  of  his  son's  odd 
charm.  She  sometimes  had  fancied  she  had 
seen  a  physical  likeness  between  them,  and 
once  she  had  caught  herself  wondering  if  the 
father  had  looked  like  the  son  in  his  youth  and 
if  the  son  would  resemble  more  closely  the 
father  in  age.  She  patted  thoughtfully  the 
arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Papa  will  be  so  sorry  to  miss  you,"  she 
began. 

Trevelyan's  father  leaned  forward.  He 
suddenly  stopped  drawing  patterns  on  the  floor 
with  his  cane. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  see  your  father,"  he  said, 
"  I  came  especially  when  I  knew  he  was  out 
and  you  were  in.  I  am  calling  on  you."  He 

103 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


smiled  grimly,  forcing  the  boy's  face  from  his 
mind. 

Gary  stared.     Then  she  recovered  herself. 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said  politely. 

The  old  officer  sat  up  very  straight  grasping 
his  cane,  and  then  he  led  direct  to  the  object  of 
his  visit,  as  he  had  led  direct  his  famous  charge 
into  the  center  of  the  enemy's  lines,  on  the 
heights  of  Inkerman,  way  back  in  '54. 

"  I've  come  to  see  you  about  that  boy  of 
mine,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"  You  mean — Robert  ?  "  asked  Gary  slowly, 
and  for  lack  of  something  to  say. 

"  He's  a  good  enough  kind  of  a  chap — " 
Gary  suppressed  a  smile,  remembering  how  the 
old  man  adored  him,  "  but  he's  a  bit  hot-headed 
and  reckless,  and  he's — mad  over  you,  and — " 
he  broke  off.  It  seemed  to  him  almost  as 
though  he  was  disloyal  to  the  boy. 

Gary  leaned  forward  with  burning  cheeks. 

"  And  you  hope  he  won't  do  anything  rash — 
is  that  it  ?  "  There  was  a  trace  of  indignation 
in  her  voice. 

"  Jove !  no,  child.  I  haven't  come  to  plead 
for  him,  but  to  ask  you  to  be  careful." 

104 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Gary,  the  hot 
flush  not  fading. 

"  There !  You  must  not  be  offended.  You 
know  the  boy  is  the  apple  of  my  eye,  but  he 
isn't  faultless.  He  has  got  good  stuff  in  him 
if  he  is  only  moulded  right,  but  there  would 
be  the  very  devil  to  pay — I  beg  your  pardon 
— if  he  was  ever  thwarted  in  anything  he'd  set 
his  stubborn  mind  on." 

Trevelyan's  father  rose  and  crossed  over  to 
the  window  and  stood  there  looking  out  on  the 
lengthening  English  twilight.  His  son's  face 
as  it  had  looked  years  ago  as  a  baby,  rose  be- 
fore him,  but  the  baby  had  reproachful  eyes. 

"  He's  brave  and  he's  strong  and  he's  every 
inch  a  soldier;  but  a  woman,  child,  needs  gen- 
tleness as  well  as  strength." 

The  soft  dim  twilight  crept  into  the  room; 
passed  the  rigid  form  of  the  old  soldier  at  the 
window  and  stole  onward  to  the  chair  in  which 
the  girl  sat  motionless.  The  outline  of  her 
figure  and  the  whiteness  of  her  half  averted 
cheek,  showed  vaguely  through  the  gloom. 

After  a  long,  long  time  she  rose. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  the  unconscious 

105 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


dignity  in  her  voice  touched  the  old  warrior 
at  the  window  strangely.  "It  was  good  of  you 
to  think  of  me  so  kindly,  even  though  it  is  not 
deserved  and — not  necessary." 

After  a  little  Trevelyan's  father  turned,  and 
came  toward  the  shadowy  standing  figure. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said;  and  then:  "  Good- 
bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Gary,  gently,  but  she  did 
not  offer  to  shake  hands. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Captain  came  in. 
The  kettle  was  not  singing,  nor  the  curtains 
drawn,  nor  his  chair  rolled  up  in  its  accustomed 
place,  with  his  easy  slippers  near  by,  and  the 
red  lamp  was  unlighted. 

"  Where  is  she?     Where's  my  baby  ?  " 

Gary  rose  from  the  big  chair  that  Trevelyan's 
father  had  occupied,  and  came  slowly  forward. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  simply,  her  voice  quiet  as 
the  deepening  twilight  that  surrounded  her,  and 
she  rubbed  her  cheek  up  and  down  against  the 
Captain's. 

The  Captain  lighted  the  red  lamp,  and 
turned  to  look  at  her,  arrested  by  the  vague 
trouble  in  the  voice. 

1 06 


VII. 

T  REVEL YAN'S  father  walked  slowly 
down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  long 
twilight. 

"  For  all  the  good  I've  done,  for  all  I've 
saved  her,  or  learned  about  her  real  feelings  for 
the  boy,  I  might  have  spared  myself  the  call. 
Gad !  but  she  has  pride  though,  and  damn  me  if 
I  don't  like  it!  The  boy  hasn't  got  half  bad 
taste  anyway.  Heaven  bless  the  boy — and 
spare  the  woman  he  marries !  " 

Then  he  pressed  his  lips  together  suddenly  as 
though  all  had  been  said,  and  he  planted  his 
cane  very  firmly  on  the  pavement  with  each 
step,  swinging  it  very  high  when  he  raised  it 
again.  But  he  kept  on  thinking  of  Robert, 
and  all  the  memories  he  had  ever  cherished  of 
him,  assailed  him  now,  as  though  charging 
against  the  breastworks  he  had  raised  of  duty. 
And  every  memory  had  those  reproachful  eyes. 
He,  his  father,  had  gone  to  plead  with  the 
woman  he  loved.  What  right  had  he  to  do 
this  thing,  questioned  the  eyes. 

107 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  old  officer  walked  slower. 

She  had  told  him  that  she  thanked  him,  but 
that  his  call  had  been  unnecessary.  How 
dared  she  tell  him  so;  how  dared  she  be  in- 
different to  his  son,  or  sit  in  judgment  on  him ! 

Yet,  hadn't  she  a  right? 

The  old  British  officer  paused  on  the  corner 
and  stared  at  the  carriages  going  by,  beating 
his  cane  on  the  curb. 

But  he  loved  him,  as  he  was,  with  all  his 
faults;  he  loved  him  for  his  faults;  and  the 
whole  thing  was  hard — harder  than  the  charge 
at  Inkerman. 

Then  he  began  to  think  of  Gary,  and  the 
more  he  thought  of  Gary,  the  more  resolved  he 
became  on  the  course  to  be  pursued,  and  with 
the  strengthening  resolve  the  reproachful  eyes 
retreated.  The  boy  was  ruining  his  life  here. 
His  career  of  which  he  had  once  thought  so 
much  had  become  dwarfed  by  his  love  for  a 
woman.  In  India — but  there,  he  could  prove 
the  stuff  he  was  made  of.  An  officer  who  has 
seen  Indian  service  is  always  a  bit  better  than 
he  was  before,  or  a  bit  worse.  He  was  never 
quite  the  same  again.  And  Gary — well,  that 

108 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


girl  was  worth  saving,  even  if  the  boy  was  his 
own. 

The  British  officer  turned  into  Grosvenor 
Square,  and  went  up  the  broad  steps  of  the 
house  the  Stewarts  had  rented  for  the  past  five 
years.  He  found  the  older  Stewart  in  his  li- 
brary, as  he  knew  he  would,  absorbed  in  the 
latest  political  news.  The  Scotchman  looked 
up  as  he  entered. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want?  I  can  see  it  is 
something  by  your  face." 

"  Yes.  I  want  you  to  use  your  influence 
with  the  Secretary  and  get  Robert  transferred 
to  the  regiment  that  sails  for  India  next 
month." 

"  What?  " 

Trevelyan's  father  flung  himself  into  one  of 
the  big  chairs,  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  and  shaded  his  eyes,  "  It  could  be 
done — I  suppose,  without  his  knowing  ?  " 

"Why,  y-e-s,  but — "  Stewart  broke  off 
doubtfully. 

Trevelyan's  father  leaned  forward,  still  shad- 
ing his  eyes  and  staring  hard  at  his  boots. 

"  I'm  not  much  of  a  talker,  as  you  know, 

109 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Malcolm,"  he  said  concisely.  "  And  what  I've 
once  done  for  a  man  I  don't  generally  remind 
him  of,  but  at  Inkerman,  years  ago  when  you 
were  a  bit  of  a  boy  lieutenant,  I  did  you  a  slight 
service — " 

"  You  saved  my  life,"  said  the  Scotchman 
briefly. 

"  I  suppose  I  did.  Well,  you  are  always 
harping  on  that,  and  a  service  to  me.  If  you 
will  get  the  boy  ordered  off  without  his  sus- 
pecting— "  the  older  Trevelyan  broke  off  and 
then  went  on,  "  You're  a  power  in  politics  and 
could  do  it  better  than  I.  Politics  count  three- 
fourths,  now-a-days,  even  with  the  army." 

"  I'll  do  it,  but  may  I  know  your  reason  ? 
I  always  fancied  you  liked  having  Robert  sta- 
tioned in  England — " 

Trevelyan's  father  dropped  the  hand  that 
was  shading  his  eyes,  with  a  dull  thud  on  the 
table. 

"  I  have.  But  the  boy's  ruining  himself. 
He  will  never  make  even  a  tin  soldier  at  this 
rate.  He  is  throwing  his  chance  of  a  career 
to  the  winds — and  he  don't  care.  He  was 
reprimanded  a  month  ago  for  negligence  of 
duty,  and  again  yesterday,"  the  old  soldier 

I  IO 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


flushed,  "  and  he  don't  care !  It  is  not  the 
easiest  thing  for  a  man  to  talk  so  about  his 
flesh  and  blood,  but — the  boy's  whole  future 
depends  on  what  he  makes  of  his  life  now ;  and 
I  would  not  give  a  penny  for  what  it  will  turn 
out  to  be,  if  he  is  not  hauled  up  with  a  sharp 
turn  and  gotten  out  of  England.  The  boy  will 
do  the  Queen  and  the  Service  honor,  where 
there  is  danger  to  be  faced  and  courage  needed, 
but  the  idleness  of  barrack  life — "  he  broke  off. 

The  elder  Stewart  nodded. 

"  True,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  something  else  that  has  decided 
me.  I  went  to  call  on  the  little  American  this 
afternoon." 

"Ah?" 

"  She's  game,  and  worth  the  best  fellow 
born." 

"  Is  not  your  Robert  good  enough  for  her?  " 

"  No ;  but  your  John  is." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Somewhere  out- 
side a  carriage  drove  into  the  Square,  the  echo 
of  its  wheels  deadened  by  the  heavy  curtains. 
Somewhere  in  the  house  a  door  closed  noisily. 

"  I  always  used  to  fancy  I  would  want  a 
Scotch  lassie,  for  John,"  said  the  Scotchman 

III 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


with  a  slow  smile,  "  but  lately  I  have  not  been 
so  sure ;  not — so — sure !  " 

Trevelyan's  father  sat  silent. 

"  Out  in  India,"  he  said  after  a  while,  "  there 
will  be  something  for  him  to  do  and  think  of 
besides  the  little  American  girl — "  he  rose, 
"  You  will  see  to  it  then  ?  " 

The  elder  Stewart  looked  thoughtfully  down 
at  the  table. 

"  Since  you  think  it  wisest — yes." 


"  Out  in  India,"  said  Trevelyan's  father,  to 
himself  as  he  paused  on  the  steps  of  the  Gros- 
venor  Square  house,  and  stared  hard  into  the 
darkness,  "  But,  God,  how  I'll  miss  the  boy." 


112 


VIII. 

TREVELYAN  had  been  gone  a  year. 
His  orders  for  Indian  service  had 
been  a  nine  days'  wonder  to  London. 

"  Of  course  he  will  get  his  uncle  to  work 
him  back  on  a  home  regiment  or  do  something 
on  the  strength  of  his  father's  gallant  action 
at  Inkerman  and  his  wound."  Tom  Cameron 
had  said.  "  Of  course  he  won't  go." 

"  Of  course  not,"  London  had  said. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  go,"  Trevelyan  had 
exploded  to  Stewart,  and  he  spent  most  of  his 
time  between  his  father's  chambers  and  his 
uncle's  house,  relieved  by  frantic  calls  to  ev^ry 
influential  man  he  knew.  But  the  powers  that 
could  have  worked  in  his  behalf,  remained  pas- 
sive, and  for  the  first  time  his  father  and  uncle 
refused  to  help  him.  Trevelyan  wondered 
wildly  what  suddenly  possessed  them  all,  and 
what  had  become  of  his  own  persuasiveness. 

"  Jove !  I  should  think  you  would  be 
pleased,"  his  father  had  said,  purposely  avoid- 

"3 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ing  his  eyes.  "  As  a  little  chap  you  were  eter- 
nally wanting  to  grow  up  and  get  into  active 
service.  Here  you  have  only  been  vegetating 
in  barrack  life  and  now  that  you  have  the 
chance  to  win  your  spurs — " 

"  Damn  the  spurs,"  Trevelyan  had  said. 

"  Sorry,  but  I  can't  help  you,"  his  uncle  had 
answered  when  he  had  made  his  sixth  and  last 
desperate  appeal  to  him.  "  I've  seen  the  Secre- 
tary. He  says  the  commander  of  the  regi- 
ment wants  just  such  a  fellow — one  of  the 
Engineers.  You  can't  expect  to  remould  the 
entire  military  force  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
my  boy,  when  you  have  just  about  finished 
serving  your  sub-lieutenancy." 

"  John's  an  Engineer  and  has  seen  Indian 
service  too,"  Trevelyan  had  suggested  mood- 
ily, and  the  elder  Stewart  had  remained  silent. 

Trevelyan  continued  to  fight  passionately 
against  the  orders  until  the  hour  of  sailing. 

Gary  went  down  with  the  family  to  see  the 
transport  off,  and  when  Trevelyan  caught  his 
last  glimpse  of  her  she  was  standing  out  dis- 
tinctly from  the  background  of  the  faint  fog 
that  had  arisen,  with  Stewart  at  her  side. 

He  turned  his  face  away  sharply  and  gripped 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


at  the  ship's  rail.  Then  a  sudden  pressure 
came  against  his  throat  and  breast  as  though 
the  strength  was  being  crushed  from  him.  He 
swallowed  hard. 

For  once,  Fate  had  conquered  Trevelyan. 


He  wrote  to  Gary  just  one  time  that  year — 
on  the  voyage  out — a  letter  that  a  man  does 
not  often  write  more  than  once  in  his  life.  In 
it  were  the  passion  and  the  love;  the  strength 
and  weakness  of  his  nature.  On  one  page  he 
stripped  his  heart  for  her,  that  she  might  know 
its  faults,  and  fairly  judge.  On  the  next,  he 
tried  to  vindicate  his  failings. 

"  I  would  be  as  clay  in  your  hands,"  he 
wrote  toward  the  close,  "  You  could  do  with 
me  what  you  would.  I  love  you  more  than  it 
is  generally  given  to  a  man  to  love — more 
than  an  English  officer  should.  I  would  de- 
sert for  you,  for  I  love  you  more  than  England 
and  more  than  my  honor — "  and  then  there 
came  a  blot  upon  the  page,  that  half  covered 
the  last  word.  The  letter  ended  as  a  child's 
struggle  ends — brokenly;  and  he  asked  her  in 
a  few  disjointed  sentences  to  be  his  wife. 

"5 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Weeks  later  when  the  letter  was  delivered, 
Gary  was  out  with  John.  On  her  return  she 
sat  far  into  the  night  to  answer  it,  that  her  reply 
might  go  back  to  him  by  the  next  Indian  mail. 

"  Your  love  frightens  me,"  she  said  in  part, 
"  and  I  cannot  bind  myself  through  time  and 
distance.  If  I  loved  you  as  I  should — and 
as  I  could  love  a  man — I  would  say  '  yes ' — 
as  it  is,  I  must  say  '  no.'  It  lies  with  you  if 
my  answer  ever  changes.  I  do  not  demand 
love  that  would  prove  disloyal  to  an  officer's 
vow  of  courage  in  the  service.  I  do  not  want 
such  love.  I  am  an  army  woman,  and  army 
women,  all  the  world  over,  have  one  code  of 
allegiance — which  is  absolute.  You  cheapen 
me  when  you  suggest  I  would  be  satisfied  with 
anything  less.  As  for  moulding  you — a  man 
moulds  himself  into  the  perfect  and  complete, 
or  he  breaks  the  clay  with  his  own  hands. 
When  I  marry  it  shall  be  a  man  whose  nature 
is  stronger  than  my  own.  It  is  the  way  of 
women." 

And  Trevelyan  had  been  gone  a  year. 


116 


IX. 


AT  the  end  of  the  twelve  months  Stewart 
got  a  letter  from  Trevelyan. 

He  smiled  a  bit  curiously  as  he  tore 
open  the  travel  worn  flap.  He  wondered  what 
Robert  had  to  say  for  himself  or  what  he 
wanted.  It  was  the  first  letter  he  had  received 
since  Robert  had  been  ordered  to  India,  but  he 
laughed  genuinely  in  the  silence  of  the  deserted 
club  room,  at  the  opening,  and  characteristic 
words : 

"  This  is  a  damnable  hole !  It  is  hot  as — 
well  I  won't  swear  any  more — but  it  is  hotter 
than  I  ever  imagined  a  place  could  be  on  the 
surface  of  the  earth.  We  are  miles  from  any 
decent  civilization,  and  how  you  can  talk  de- 
cently about  the  natives  and  the  native  regi- 
ments, staggers  me!  I  don't  trust  'en^  and 
what's  more  I  doubt  very  much  if  they  hold  me 
in  any  higher  regard.  But  what  is  the  good 
of  writing  so  to  you.  You  know  what  Indian 
service  is.  Your  station  was  either  a  good 
deal  better  than  mine,  or  you  have  a  lot  more 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


back  bone  than  I  have.  The  first  idea  making 
me  jealous,  and  the  last  not  being  conducive 
to  self-respect,  there  don't  seem  to  be  any 
choice!  To  move  requires  a  strenuous  effort. 
The  life  is  stagnation.  It  is  a  living  death  and 
the  death  numbness  is  creeping  into  my  veins. 
They  tell  me  that  the  natives  have  not  been  so 
quiet  for  years,  and  most  of  the  officers  and 
men  wish  they'd  stir  up  a  bit  and  give  them 
some  trouble.  I  don't.  I  don't  want  trouble. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  fight  if  I  had  to! 
Damned  odd,  isn't  it,  when  my  blood  used  to 
boil  and  my  head  throb  queer,  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver  at  home  and  there  was  danger 
around?  I  guess  I  wasn't  cut  out  for  the 
Service,  after  all.  Mactier  would  wonder — 
*  *  *  I  think  I'm  going  mad.  As  you 
may  have  caught  on  I  am  writing  all  this  with 
a  purpose;  for  it  is  only  fair  for  you  to  know 
what  this  station  is,  and  I'm  asking  more  than 
one  man  ought  of  another,  but  if  you'd  get 
transferred  out  here —  There  wouldn't  be  any 
trouble  about  the  technical  part  of  it,  for  the 
Engineers  are  needed  bad  for  surveying. 
Your  last  letter  said  something  about  your  get- 
ting a  commission  in  the  Gordon  Highlanders 

118 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


—  if  you  could  only  come  here  instead — I  sup- 
pose I  am  selfish,  but  I  can't  get  a  grip  on 
things.  If—" 

Stewart  looked  up  from  the  letter,  toward 
the  window  and  the  street — seriously.  Then 
he  went  over  to  the  window  and  sat  down  in 
a  big  chair  and  leaned  forward,  still  looking 
out.  The  noise  of  the  passing  carriages  and 
the  stir  of  the  passing  crowd  crept  in  to  meet 
the  silence  of  the  empty  reading  room.  He 
sat  motionless,  heedless  alike  of  the  noise  and 
the  stillness.  Once  he  thought  of  Gary,  and 
his  face  changed  swiftly. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  letter  and  finished 
it,  and  later  he  re-read  it,  and  folded  it,  and  put 
it  in  his  vest  pocket.  Then  he  went  back  to 
his  old  occupation  of  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

The  crowd  was  no  longer  one  big  indistinct 
blur,  and  he  was  vaguely  conscious  that  he 
saw  his  mother's  carriage  among  the  others 
coming  down  the  street.  It  came  nearer  and 
he  could  see  that  his  sister  was  in  it.  There 
was  a  girl  sitting  beside  her.  The  girl  was 
Gary. 

***** 

119 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


It  was  a  week  before  Stewart  called  again 
at  the  lodgings.  Gary  firmly  expected  him  the 
second  day;  grew  bewildered  as  the  evening 
of  the  fourth  came  and  went  without  bringing 
him ;  on  the  fifth  grew  anxious  and  on  the  sixth 
wrote  to  him.  Calling  on  his  family  just  then 
for  news  was  out  of  the  question.  They  had 
gone  to  Brighton  for  a  week. 

He  came  to  her  the  day  her  letter  reached 
him. 

"  I  would  scold  you,"  the  girl  said,  "if  it 
were  not  for  these.  You  never  forget  my 
violets." 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  purple  bloom,  be- 
fore she  fastened  the  bunch  on  her  dress. 

"  I  have  left  the  order  with  the  florist,"  said 
Stewart  quietly.  "  He  will  send  you  the  violets 
every  week,  and  when  they  are  gone,  I  have 
told  him  about  your  roses.  I  am  going  away." 

She  looked  up  quickly  from  the  flowers  she 
had  just  fastened  in  her  dress. 

"For  long?" 

"  I  think  so— yes." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

Stewart  pulled  at  his  gloves. 

"  India,"  he  said  briefly. 

I  2O 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  You  have  received  your  orders  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  asked  for  them." 

Gary  went  up  to  him  and  pulled  him  by  the 
sleeve. 

"  I — don't — quite — understand,"  she  said. 
"  I— is  it  the  Highlanders?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  it's  Rob.  He  is  just  about  mad 
enough  to  blow  his  brains  out.  I'm  going  to 
him." 

"He's  sent  for  you?" 

"  He's  asked  me  to  come." 

Stewart  sat  with  her  in  the  little  room  all 
that  long  afternoon,  and  they  had  tea  together, 
and  they  watched  the  sunset  from  the  windows 
together,  as  they  had  done  almost  every  day 
that  year.  It  would  seem  strange  to  drink  tea 
alone  and  watch  the  sunset  by  herself,  thought 
Gary. 

"  If  you  would  sometimes  write — "  he  sug- 
gested once. 

"  Of  course,  I  will  write,"  she  retorted 
quickly. 

When  the  twilight  came,  he  left. 

End  of  Book  One. 
I  7,1 


BOOK   TWO 

THE    BREAK     & 
IN     THE     CLAY 


BOOK  TWO 

THE  BREAK  IN  THE  CLAY 
I. 

T  REVEL  YAK'S  face  was  the  first  that 
greeted  Stewart  at  his  journey's  end. 
Trevelyan  had  been  in  the  wildest 
spirits  for  days  before  Stewart's  arrival,  and 
his  fellow  officers  spoke  about  the  sudden 
change  in  him.  For  the  first  time  in  the  year 
that  Trevelyan  had  served  with  them,  he  be- 
came less  moody  and  unsociable  and  whimsical, 
and  they  grew  to  think  less  critically  of  one  who 
had  never  been  a  favorite.  It  was  probably 
only  the  Colonel,  remembering  the  stock  from 
whence  he  sprang,  who  took  the  trouble  to  look 
beneath  the  inertia. 

"  The  boy  will  come  around  all  right  in 
time — he's  only  a  bit  homesick  and  strange 
to  the  new  life  now.  When  there's  an  oppor- 
tunity for  fighting  he'll  show  himself  up  true," 

122 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


he  would  say.  "  Why,  his  father  at  Inker- 
man — " 

And  then  the  officer  or  officers  of  whom  he 
had  gotten  hold,  would  be  obliged  to  listen  all 
over  again  to  the  story  of  the  charge  led  by 
Trevelyan's  father  in  the  Crimea. 

But  the  story  had  its  unconscious  influence 
on  their  treatment  of  the  young  Engineer. 
They  never  really  cared  for  him  but  they  re- 
spected him — for  what  the  Colonel  believed 
he  would  some  day  be — which  was  all  that 
Trevelyan  seemed  to  desire.  After  their  first 
trial  at  pleasantries  which  he  had  met  with  ill- 
concealed  indifference,  they  left  him  to  himself. 
They  rarely  saw  him  except  at  mess,  or  on 
duty,  and  his  ungraciousness  then  did  not  help 
to  heal  the  widening  breach  of  unfavorable 
opinion. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  year  his  fellow  offi- 
cers found  out  that  he  was  cousin  to  young 
Stewart — Stewart  who  had  won  that  honor- 
able mention — and  son  of  Malcolm  Stewart 
of  Aberdeen.  That  helped  matters  a  little. 
They  could  pardon  a  chap's  unpardonable 
moodiness  for  young  Stewart's  sake. 

Months  later  they  heard  that  young  Stewart 

123 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


himself  had  re-applied  for  Indian  service,  and 
that  he  was  coming  to  them.  It  was  Trevel- 
yan  who  told  them  in  confidence,  first,  and  from 
then  Trevelyan  was  changed.  That  night  he 
joked  them  at  mess,  in  a  dry  Scotch  fashion, 
fostered  long  ago  in  the  Argyll  years;  later  he 
joined  them  at  cards  and  proposed  the  toast 
to  Stewart  with  a  dash  and  a  charm  that  made 
some  of  them  wonder  if  they  had  not  mis- 
judged a  deuced  good  chap  after  all. 

As  a  matter  of  course  Trevelyan  formed  one 
of  the  squad  of  officers  and  men  who  rode  over 
from  the  Station  to  meet  young  Stewart  when 
he  came.  It  was  Trevelyan  who  got  them 
started  a  needless  hour  before  the  time;  it  was 
Trevelyan  who  laughed  at  the  dust  and  the  heat 
of  the  long  ride  and  bribed  them,  with  all  he 
possessed  from  the  last  cent  of  his  pay,  to  his 
helmet  and  the  braid  on  his  uniform,  to  races 
which  he  always  won,  swinging  himself  far 
out  of  the  saddle  and  stooping  low  to  pick  up 
withered  bits  of  native  growth  from  the 
ground  as  he  swept  past  at  a  gallop. 

Trevelyan's  two  mess  companions  who  had 
been  with  Stewart  in  the  "  row  "  where  he  had 
won  his  mention,  imbibed  something  of  Trev- 

124 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


elyan's  spirits,  and  they  laughed  at  the  dust, 
in  their  turn,  and  the  heat,  as  they  rode  from 
the  military  station  to  welcome  back  their  old 
comrade. 

They  saw  him  long  before  the  train  had 
come  to  a  dead  stop  and  they  cheered  him  now, 
in  the  desolate  little  way-station,  remembering 
how  they  had  cheered  him  that  day,  but  it  was 
only  Trevelyan's  bronzed  face  that  Stewart 
saw  as  he  descended. 

"  Hello,  Bobby,"  he  said,  slapping  him  on 
the  back,  "  You  see  I've  come." 

Trevelyan  looked  at  him  queerly  for  a  mo- 
ment in  silence. 

"  I  knew  you  would.  You're  a — "  he  broke 
off  and  turned  away,  and  the  officers  and  men 
wondered  what  had  become  of  Trevelyan's 
spirits  during  the  return  trip. 

Trevelyan  sat  up  late  into  the  night  with 
Stewart,  listening  while  he  told  of  England  and 
the  home  people.  Once  or  twice  Stewart  men- 
tioned Gary. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  asked  the  younger  man. 

He  only  alluded  to  her  once  again. 

At  midnight  he  rose  to  leave. 

"  Of  course  there  isn't  anything  to  say  to 

125 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


you  about — your  leaving  England  and — and 
all  that — to  come  to  me  out  here  in  this  devil- 
ish hole — "  he  began  disjointedly,  "  but  it's 
only  fair  to  try  to  say  something.  The  fellows 
and  the  men  can  tell  you  I've  been  a  different 
chap  since  I  heard  of  the  transfer.  When  I 
left  England,  and  for  all  this  year,  well — I 
haven't  much  cared  what  happened.  Out  here 
— the  loneliness  without  her — " 

He  turned  sharply  on  his  heel  and  left. 

Young  Stewart  of  the  Engineers  stood  still 
in  the  middle  of  his  quarters,  listening  to 
Trevelyan's  footsteps  growing  fainter.  Pres- 
ently they  were  lost  in  the  silence  of  the  Indian 
night.  Now  and  again  came  sounds  from  the 
jungle,  but  Stewart  stood  motionless. 

Suddenly  he  flung  his  right  arm  across  his 
forehead. 

"  The  loneliness  without  her — " 

And  Gary,  sleepless  in  far-away  England, 
watched  the  sun  rise,  wondering  what  made  the 
nights  so  long. 


126 


II. 


TREVELYAN'S  excitement  over  Stew- 
art's coming  died  away  as  one  monoto- 
nous week  followed  another,  and  he 
became  more  moody  than  before.  Stewart  tried 
to  draw  him  into  the  life  of  the  station,  and  the 
pastimes  by  which  the  officers  and  men  helped 
to  kill  the  long  inactive  days,  but  Trevelyan 
steadily  refused  to  be  won  from  his  taciturnity. 
A  few  used  to  laugh  at  Stewart  for  his  pains, 
but  the  majority  of  the  mess,  grew,  while 
watching  his  struggle  for  Trevelyan,  to  know 
him  better  and  to  appreciate  him  more.  Before, 
to  a  few,  young  Stewart  of  the  Engineers  had 
been  a  man  with  a  good  name;  to  the  most  of 
them  he  had  been  unknown,  but,  aside  from 
his  devotion  to  Trevelyan,  his  knowledge  of 
surveying  and  military  niceties,  his  genial 
spirit  and  his  unfailing  patience,  won  for  him 
the  distinct  approval  of  the  officers  and  the 
absolute  adoration  of  the  rank  and  file. 

He  used  to  try  to  include  Trevelyan  in  the 
atmosphere   of   approbation   that   surrounded 

127 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


himself,  but  Trevelyan  obstinately  refused  even 
his  advances. 

Once,  indeed,  one  evening,  Stewart  got  him 
to  join  a  game  of  cards.  Trevelyan  did  more 
drinking  than  he  did  playing,  and  three  hours 
later,  Stewart  carried  him  to  his  own  quarters 
and  nursed  him  through  the  long  still  night. 

When  Trevelyan  awoke  in  the  dawn  of  the 
early  morning,  he  found  Stewart  still  watching, 
and  later  as  the  wan  grayness  of  the  dawn 
turned  to  deepening  gold,  Stewart  talked  to 
him  as  an  older  man  talks  to  a  younger  one. 
He  spoke  to  him  of  self-respect  and  honor  and 
of  self-control.  He  spoke  to  him  of  Gary. 

"  Take  a  brace  and  redeem  yourself  with  the 
mess  and  the  men,"  he  said,  as  he  finished. 
"  Where's  your  grit  and  your  hold  on  things  ? 
You  don't  think  you're  growing  more  worthy 
of  her ;  do  you  ?  " 

Trevelyan  sat  up,  supporting  himself  by  his 
rigid  arms,  on  the  palms  of  his  hands.  The 
light  of  the  coming  sunrise  gave  to  his  bronzed 
face  a  strange  reddish  hue. 

"  Think !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  to  God  I 
could  stop  thinking!  Her  face  haunts  and 
haunts  and  haunts  me!  She  says  my  love 

128 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


frightens  her,  and  that  it  lies  with  me 
and  what  I  make  of  myself,  if  her  an- 
swer changes.  I  can't  change  my  love — 
it's  all  of  me;  it's  the  soul  of  me,  and  if  it 
frightens  her — !  "  Trevelyan  leaned  forward, 
"  I  can't  change  myself !  I  can't  see  her ;  I 
know  I'll  never  win  her!  How?  I  can't  tell 
you,  but  I  know  I  never  shall,  and  I  don't 
care  what  becomes  of  me  or  how  soon  I  go  to 
hell!" 

The  rigidity  of  his  arms  increased  and  he 
stared  straight  in  front  of  him. 

Stewart  sprang  up,  his  firm  mouth  quivering 
with  passion. 

"  If  a  man  had  ever  dared  to  tell  me  that  you 
would  talk  so,  I  would  have  knocked  him  down. 
You're  not  worthy  to  be  born  of  such  a  father 
and  it's  a  blessing  that  your  mother's  dead. 
You're  not  worthy  to  have  had  my  mother 
foster  you  ever  since  you  were  a  little  shaver. 
You're  not  worthy  of  the  worst  woman  that 
ever  lived.  You've  lost  your  manhood.  You 
can  be  cashiered  from  the  army — and  you  can 
go  to  hell !  You're  not  worth  saving !  " 

Young  Stewart  of  the  Engineers  turned  on 
his  heel  and  swung  out  of  the  room  as  he 

129 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


would  have  swung,  face  forward,  at  the  head 
of  a  line,  leading  into  action. 

Later  when  he  returned  Trevelyan  had  gone. 
He  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  deserted  room 
and  stared  fixedly  at  where  Trevelyan  had  lain 
through  the  night.  He  was  himself  again, 
and  a  great  shame  at  his  lost  control  swept 
over  him.  He  had  preached  of  self-control  to 
Trevelyan. 

"  And  I'd  give  my  life  for  the  boy's,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

It  was  remarked  at  mess  that  night  that  Tre- 
velyan did  not  touch  his  food,  and  that  he  left 
earlier  even  than  was  his  wont.  Stewart  fol- 
lowed him  out  into  the  stillness  of  the  evening. 

"  Trevelyan,"  he  called,  following  the 
quickly  moving  figure  up  the  steps  of  his  quar- 
ters. 

Trevelyan  turned  sharply. 

"  I  don't  want  any  more  of  your  talk,"  he 
said.  "  Good-night !  "  And  slammed  the  door 
in  Stewart's  face. 

Stewart  stood  there  for  a  moment  tapping 
his  booted  foot  against  the  floor  of  the  piazza.. 
Then  he  went  to  his  own  quarters. 

"  I've  come  out  to  this  cursed  hole  to  serve 

130 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  boy,  and  I've  lost  him  instead !     I've  made 
a  jolly  mess  of  it  all,  this  time !  " 


After  that  Trevelyan  spent  all  of  his  "  off 
duty "  time  alone.  He  used  to  go  on  long 
tramps  or  wild  rides,  returning  with  his  horse 
flecked  with  foam  and  himself  worn  out,  and 
his  evenings  were  passed  in  his  own  quarters 
with  no  one  better  than  himself  for  company. 
He  would  walk  up  and  down  and  down  and  up 
again  until  he  turned  in,  or  he  would  take  to 
studying  Hindoostanee,  or  sit  idly,  staring  into 
nothingness.  At  first  he  fastened  his  door 
against  possible  intrusion,  but  no  one  ever 
came,  and  his  solitude  was  unbroken.  Once 
his  strained  ears  caught  the  sound  of  Stew- 
art's familiar  step  outside  and  he  stealthily 
crept  over  to  the  door  and  unfastened  it  and 
stood  by  it  listening.  The  even  steady  steps 
came  nearer,  and  then  without  halting,  passed 
on. 

Trevelyan  wiped  his  moist  face.  After  all, 
why  should  Stewart  have  tried  again?  He 
had  been  refused  so  often — 

Stewart  pushed  back  his  ponderous  volume 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


on  military  engineering  and  stared  ahead  of 
him,  his  firm  lips  pressed  close  together. 

If  there  was  only  some  way  to   help  the 
boy — 


132 


III. 


IN  the  spring  the  natives  grew  restless. 
"  They're  stretching  themselves  after  a 
long  sleep,"  said  a  young  subaltern, 
knowingly. 

"  They're  planning  mutiny,"  said  the  Colonel 
to  himself,  and  he  ordered  out  a  band  of  men 
for  investigating  the  neighborhood. 

The  little  band  was  delayed  seven  hours  over 
the  extremest  limit  set  for  its  return. 

When  it  came  it  bore  a  dead  man  back  to  the 
Station.  The  man  had  been  a  Briton  and  of 
the  regiment. 

Then  the  grim  spirit  of  the  military  station 
rose,  as  the  gray,  still  sea  rises  at  the  onsweep 
of  the  gale. 

War  had  come. 


33 


IV. 


FOR  an  hour  the  Colonel  was  closeted. 
There  was  a  line  of  attack  to  be 
planned.  He  would  talk  it  over  with 
his  older  officers  presently;  for  the  time  being 
he  could  think  better  alone.  It  was  necessary 
not  to  be  too  hasty — to  keep  a  controlling  hand 
on  the  lever  of  this  engine  of  war,  of  which 
he  was  in  command.  It  was  necessary  to 
strike  decisively,  when  he  did  strike,  and  to  the 
heart  of  it.  That  was  it — to  the  heart!  The 
natives  were  on  the  move,  the  investigating 
band  had  reported.  Where  to  strike?  A  sur- 
veying officer ;  an  engineer  could  judge.  Who 
was  the  best  man  to  send.  It  was  like  ordering 
a  man  into  the  mouth  of  death. 

The  Colonel  leaned  his  head  in  his  hand 
and  beat  the  end  of  his  pen  against  the  deal  of 
the  table.  Coolness  was  wanted;  knowledge 
of  surveying;  courage.  That  was  it — cour- 
age! 

Only  two  faces  rose  before  him  and  haunted 

'34 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


him,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others.     Of  the 
two,  Trevelyan's  was  the  most  persistent. 

True,  he  was  young  and  he  was  untried, 
and  he  was  probably  the  most  unpopular  officer 
at  the  Station,  but  in  his  veins  was  the  blood 
that  endures  and  slays  and  conquers ! 

Properly  executed  the  fulfilling  of  the  orders 
would  mean  his  proved  skill  as  an  officer.  If 
he  failed — the  Colonel  laid  down  his  pen. 
That  blood  could  not  fail. 

There  was  his  unusual  strength,  too,  to  be 
taken  in  his  favor,  his  strength  and  his  endur- 
ance. He  remembered  that  Trevelyan  had 
stood  intense  heat  better  than  any  man  at  the 
Station;  that  he  could  live  on  less  food,  and 
had  a  nicer  knowledge  of  horsemanship  than 
any  officer  or  trooper  in  his  command;  that 
technically  he  was  brilliant  at  surveying.  The 
majority  of  commanders  would  probably  de- 
cide between  the  two  in  favor  of  Stewart,  but 
the  Colonel  had  run  the  gauntlet  to  success  a 
good  deal  on  instinct.  The  Colonel  prided 
himself  on  instinct.  It  would  be  Trevelyan ! 

Two  hours  later  Trevelyan  received  his  or- 
ders. 

"Very    well,    sir,"    "I    understand,    sir," 

'35 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Yes,  sir,"  he  had  replied,  and  after  he  had 
left,  the  Colonel  nodded  and  smiled  grimly  at 
the  young  engineer's  self-control  in  the  face  of 
an  order  that  might  mean  death. 

Trevelyan  walked  blindly  back  to  his  quar- 
ters. There  was  a  queer  singing  in  his  head 
and  beating  at  his  temples.  He  stumbled 
across  the  threshold  and  he  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  his  bunk  and  pressed  his  hands  hard 
against  his  temples  to  still  that  mad,  incessant 
beating.  His  eyes  remained  wide  and  fixed  at 
one  spot  on  the  floor. 

It  had  come  at  last ;  the  test  and  the  opportu- 
nity for  which  he  had  blindly,  passionately 
prayed  as  a  child ;  for  which  he  had  striven  and 
worked  as  a  boy ;  it  had  come  and  it  had  found 
him  unprepared  to  meet  it ! 

He  thought  of  the  ride — alone,  except  for  a 
trooper — and  on  the  spot  of  the  floor,  he  pic- 
tured the  blackness  and  the  danger,  as  a  man 
brings  forth  a  likeness  on  a  dark  plate.  The 
picture  came  and  went,  and  went  and  came 
again  on  the  spot  on  the  floor  and  he  sprang 
up  with  a  choked  cry.  To  go  out  into  that 
stillness  and  darkness;  to  face  the  blackness  of 
death — 

136 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


They  might  get  back  his  body — what  good 
would  his  body  do  anyone — and  they  might 
get  it  home,  but  they  probably  wouldn't.  .  The 
utter  silence  in  that  blackness  of  death — so 
great  that  her  voice  could  never  reach  him ! 

He  put  his  foot  over  the  possessed  spot  on 
the  floor,  and  his  leg  shook  as  he  did  so.  He 
saw  his  leg  tremble,  and  he  knew  it  and  he  did 
not  care !  He  had  turned  coward,  and — he  did 
not  care!  What  was  courage  when  her  voice 
could  not  reach  him  in  the  blackness  of  death? 
He  might  live  through  it,  and  she  might  care 
more  for  him,  for  it,  but  the  chances  were  two- 
thirds  for  death. 

The  man  they  had  brought  in  that  morning! 
What  a  ghastly  sight  he  had  been!  The  eyes 
had  refused  to  remain  closed  and  they  had 
stared  at  him  in  all  the  horror  of  dead  sight- 
lessness. And  the  lips  had  been  drawn  back 
from  the  teeth  and  had  stiffened  so,  in  the 
agony  of  the  death  struggle.  God !  And  they 
would  bring  him  back  like  that — like  that — like 
that! 

What  vision  did  those  staring  eyes  see  but 
unutterable,  unpenetrable  blackness?  What 
speech  could  that  grinning  mouth  ever  form 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


again?  What  sound  could  pierce  the  seal  laid 
on  the  hearing? 

They  had  told  him  that  the  trooper  had  a 
sweetheart  waiting  for  him  somewhere  off  in 
Ireland.  Well,  even  love  could  not  break  the 
bonds  of  death,  and  make  him  speak  and  hear 
and  caress  her  as  of  old. 

There  was  something  mightier  than  love 
after  all — mightier  even  than  the  love  he  had 
for  Gary. 

And  Trevelyan  cowered,  afraid. 


138 


V, 


MACKENZIE,  the  surgeon,  lounging  in 
a  big  wicker  chair,  his  heels  higher 
than  his  head,  lazily  rolled  cigarettes 
and  winked  at  the  dazzling  reflection  of  the  sun 
on  the-  walls  of  the  barracks.     Off  in  the  dis- 
tance he  could  see  the  little  subaltern  walking 
energetically  down  the  road.     The  little  sub- 
altern was  gotten  up  regardless  in  white  linen. 
He  was  evidently  on  his  way  to  drink  tea  with 
the  Colonel's  daughter. 

"  My  eyes,"  said  Mackenzie,  aloud,  "  Will 
nothing  interfere  with  his  afternoon  tea !  The 
devil  only  knows  if  he'll  be  alive  this  time 
to-morrow.  Better  keep  cool  when  he  can. 
He's  a  blank  little  fool !  Thinks  Jessica  Q 
will  tumble  when  he  says  good-bye — does  he? 
Tea  and  love-making  now!"  and  the  surgeon 
fanned  himself  with  his  hand.  The  surgeon 
had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  little  subaltern. 

139 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Suddenly  his  feet  came  down  with  a  crash 
and  he  leaned  forward  in  the  wicker  chair. 
Bennett  had  stopped  the  little  subaltern  and  the 
little  subaltern  was  talking  back  excitedly  and 
kicking  up  the  white  dust,  regardless  of  the 
fresh  linen  suit. 

Mackenzie  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"  Wonder  if  the  old  man  has  issued  orders? 
Something's  up,  sure  as  a  gun,  when  that  kid 
forgets  Jessica  Q  and  his  clothes." 

Three  of  the  mess  who  had  been  talking  ear- 
nestly at  the  end  of  the  piazza  turned  at  the 
sound  of  voices  in  the  road  and  joined  the  two 
there. 

"  Not  Trevelyan,  you  say  ?  It  isn't  Trevel- 
yan?"  one  of  them  was  saying,  as  Mackenzie 
came  up. 

"  Yes,  it  is,  too !  Jove !  If  I  only  had  his 
chance,"  sighed  the  little  subaltern,  twirling 
around  distractedly  on  one  heel. 

"There!  There!  That'll  do,  Baby,"  said 
Bennett,  patting  him  on  the  head.  The  little 
subaltern  squirmed,  but  he  kept  listening  to 
what  Bennett  was  saying. 

"  He's  a  rum  comrade,  but  I  imagine  he  can 
do  it,"  said  Bennett  looking  toward  the  bar- 

140 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


racks,  thoughtfully,  "  He  knows  the  fine  points 
of  surveying  from  A  to  Z,  and — " 

" — He's  got  more  nerve  than  any  chap  I 
ever  knew,"  put  in  Mackenzie. 

"  Is  the  old  man  going  to  send  an  escort  with 
him  ?  I  bet  if  he  does,  it'll  be  Sandy  McCann," 
said  Pearson. 

"What's  this?  What's  this  I  hear  about 
Robert  being  sent  off  to-night  ?  " 

Young  Stewart  of  the  Engineers  joined  the 
group  hastily.  His  uniform  was  covered  with 
dust  and  he  held  his  helmet  under  his  arm, 
wiping  the  moisture  from  his  face. 

"  Why,  it's  almost  certain  death.     I — " 

"  That's  why  we're  here — to  face  death,  if 
we  have  to,"  said  the  little  subaltern,  with  an 
odd  new  gravity,  and  Bennett  suddenly  stopped 
short  in  patting  his  head. 

Stewart  turned. 

"  True,"  he  said,  briefly,  running  his  right 
hand  up  and  down  the  sleeve  of  his  left  arm 
"  but—" 

"  And  it  probably  won't  be  any  worse  than 
what  we'll  have  to  face  to-morrow  or  next 
day,"  said  Bennett,  as  Stewart  paused.  "  He 
hasn't  been  sociable  and  over  decent  to  us,  but 

141 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


we'll  call  on  him  and  wish  him  luck.  Come 
along,  boys !  " 

The  group  laughed  a  little.  "  All  right," 
they  said. 

Stewart  followed  them  up  to  Trevelyan's 
quarters. 

After  all,  why  should  he  feel  it  so!  It  was 
Trevelyan's  one  chance  to  redeem  himself  with 
the  regiment  and  turn  the  tide  of  popularity  in 
his  favor.  Fate  was  not  as  cruel  as  she  seemed. 
And  Trevelyan  bore  a  charmed  life.  And  he 
knew  Trevelyan  could  do  it.  Trevelyan  would 
do  it — well!  Trevelyan  might  have  failed  in 
the  shaping  of  the  details  of  life  this  last  year, 
but  in  the  supreme  hour — 

For  Stewart  remembered  the  climb  down  the 
turret  tower  and  the  mad  scaling  of  the  crags 
in  Scotland,  and  the  storm  and  the  white  fury 
of  the  waters  near  the  American  fort,  and  the 
desperate  swim,  and  the  child  who  had  done 
these  things  because  of  what  he  would  one  day 
do  as  a  man. 

The  little  subaltern  banged  on  Trevelyan's 
door. 


142 


VI. 


T  REVEL YAN,  still  standing  over  the 
spot  on  the  floor,  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  He  remained  silent. 

The  little  subaltern  banged  again,  and  Tre- 
velyan  heard  the  echo  of  voices. 

He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  collar,  loosening  it, 
and  then  he  crossed  the  room  and  flung  open 
the  door. 

"Hello,  you  fellows,"  he  cried,  "What 
d'you  want  of  a  chap  now  ?  " 

The  little  subaltern  tumbled  into  the  room, 
the  other  half  dozen  members  of  the  mess  on 
top  of  him. 

"  Hello,  yourself,"  they  cried,  "  How  d'you 
like  the  job  the  Colonel's  given  you  ?  " 

"  Like  it !  "  Trevelyan  threw  back  his  head 
and  his  large,  well  formed  throat  pulsed  as  he 
spoke,  "  Why,  it's  the  greatest  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  a  chap  of  my  age ! " 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


His  messmates  formed  a  little  group  around 
him. 

"  How's  your  nerve?  " 

Trevelyan  laughed.  It  was  only  Stewart, 
who  stood  by  silent,  listening,  who  felt  vaguely 
the  jar  in  it. 

"  Oh,  my  nerve  is  all  right.  How's  your 
own  at  the  prospect  of  a  row  ?  '  I  go  to  pre- 
pare a  place  for  you' — "  he  went  on  in  a  deep 
chant. 

"Robert!" 

It  was  Stewart. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  that  was  a  bit  in  bad  taste, 
but  when  a  chap's  making  his  last  will  and  tes- 
tament, he  forgets  the  teachings  of  the  old 
kirk—" 

"  Sure !  What  time  do  you  start  ?  "  from 
the  little  subaltern. 

"  Fire  arms  in  good  order  ?  "  put  in  Ben- 
nett. 

"  In  an  hour.  No,  I'm  not  going  to  trust 
any  of  these  oily  natives  to  clean  them.  I'll  see 
to  them  myself." 

Trevelyan  moved  away  from  the  group. 

"  We'll  have  something  on  the  strength  of 
it!"  said  the  little  subaltern,  "A  toast:  'To 

144 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  Queen — God  bless  her — and  the  Queen's 
courier!'  How's  that?" 

He  glanced  conceitedly  about  the  room.  The 
men  of  the  mess  laughed  good  naturedly. 

"  Well,  here's  my  hand  on  the  success  of  it," 
said  Mackenzie,  a  little  later,  at  leaving.  He 
suddenly  regretted  he  had  not  been  a  bit 
kinder  to  the  young  engineer.  A  fellow  with 
such  nerve,  deserved  more  than  they  had  all 
given  him. 

They  filed  out  after  awhile.  Stewart  alone 
remained.  He  put  his  hand  on  Trevelyan's 
shoulder,  as  he  had  used  to  do  long  ago  when 
they  were  boys,  pacing  the  great  library  of  a 
rainy  afternoon,  and  he  walked  with  Trevelyan 
up  and  down  the  length  of  the  room. 

"  It's  a  risky  business,  Robert,"  he  said,  in 
his  grave  voice,  "  but  I  believe  you're  the  man 
for  it." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Trevelyan,  "  if  it  hadn't 
been  me  it  would  have  been  Pearson." 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  Pearson  couldn't  do  it." 

"  Neither  may  I." 

"  You  will,"  said  Stewart. 

After  a  little,  he  went  on,  speaking  as  though 
to  himself. 

'45 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I  wish  to  God—" 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence. 

Trevelyan  shook  off  the  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"  I  understand,  and — I'm  grateful,  of  course, 
and  all  that,  but  if  you'd  leave  me  alone  for 
awhile.  There  is  a  letter  or  two  and — " 

"  Of  course." 

At  the  door  Stewart  turned. 

"  I'll  see  you  before  you  go,"  he  said. 

Trevelyan  listened  until  his  footsteps,  faded 
away  and  then  he  sat  down  at  his  small  deal 
table,  his  eyes  turned  away  from  the  spot  on 
the  floor.  The  vision  of  that  dead,  ghastly 
face  had  come  back. 

If  it  wasn't  him  it  would  be  Pearson,  proba- 
bly, or  anyhow,  some  other  man — glad  of  the 
chance.  Why  should  he  deprive  him,  whoever 
he  was,  of  the  chance?  A  grim  smile  crept 
around  Trevelyan's  mouth,  and  then  he  let  his 
head  fall  forward  against  the  edge  of  the  wood ; 
his  arms  hanging  limp  between  his  long  legs 
stretched  out  straight  under  the  table.  The 
horrible  fear  had  returned,  and  the  darkness 
and  the  blackness  of  death  seemed  swallowing 

146 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


him  up.  Never  to  see  her  again!  Never  to 
touch  her  hand  again,  or  to  hear  her  footsteps 
in  passing,  or  the  sound  of  her  voice;  to  die — 
not  with  other  men  in  the  daylight  and  in  bat- 
tle— but  to  be  shot  down  like  a  dog,  alone,  in 
the  darkness — 

The  steady  ticking  of  the  watch  he  had  laid 
in  front  of  him  on  the  table,  throbbed  feebly 
like  a  dying  pulse,  close  to  his  ear,  and  he  sat, 
his  forehead  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  his 
eyes  staring  down  at  the  shadowed  floor. 

After  awhile  he  got  up  and  steadied  himself 
and  went  over  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open  and 
looked  out.  Far  off,  the  little  subaltern  was 
coming  his  way.  He  hurried  back  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room  and  got  out  his  fire  arms  and 
examined  them,  and  began  to  polish  them  vig- 
orously. The  little  subaltern  looked  in. 

"  Hard  at  work  ?     Do  you  want  help  ?  " 

Trevelyan  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

The  little  subaltern  sighed  enviously,  hesi- 
tated, and  then  passed  on. 

Trevelyan  drew  a  deep  breath  and  laid  down 
his  polishing  cloth  and  picked  up  his  revolver. 

'47 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


His  hands  played  nervously  over  the  trigger  a 
moment.  The  catch  seemed  stiff.  He  tried  it 
again. 

There  was  a  sudden  glare  and  a  loud  report, 
and  Trevelyan  sank  back,  the  blood  staining  the 
shoulder  of  his  uniform. 

After  all,  if  one  had  nerve,  it  could  be  easily 
done  and  was  soon  over! 

He  turned  sharply  and  leaned  against  the 
table,  facing  the  window,  one  hand  to  his  shoul- 
der. He  fancied  he  heard  footsteps  receding. 

After  awhile  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
face  and  staggered  across  the  floor,  out  into  the 
gathering  dusk,  to  headquarters. 

"  I  was  seeing  to  my  fire  arms,  sir,  preparing 
for  to-night's  survey.  The  revolver  was 
loaded.  I  didn't  know  it — it  went  off."  Tre- 
velyan's  big  frame  began  to  sway  a  little.  "  I 
came  to  report,  sir.  If  I  could  have  it  dressed, 
I'd  be  able  to  go.  Of  course,  I  expect  to  go. 
You  won't — " 

The  Colonel  signaled  for  his  orderly. 

"  My  respects  to  Dr.  Mackenzie,  and  will  he 
come  over  at  once." 

Then  to  Trevelyan : 

"  It's  a  most  unfortunate  affair,  but  it  would 

148 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


be  murder  to  allow  you  to  undertake  the  trip. 
I'll  hear  the  details  later/' 

"  But,  sir—" 

"  Don't  question  my  orders,  Lieutenant,"  in- 
terrupted the  Colonel,  briefly. 

"  Flesh  wound,"  Mackenzie  said. 

Later,  when  the  dressing  was  done  and  Tre- 
velyan  was  in  the  hospital,  the  surgeon  looked 
down  at  him  curiously.  "  Odd,"  he  said,  "  that 
shot!  I  don't  understand  how — " 

Trevelyan  turned  his  drawn  face  to  the  sur- 
geon's, meeting  his  eyes  squarely. 

"  Confound  you !  You  don't  think  I  shot 
myself  on  purpose,  do  you  ?  " 

Mackenzie  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  Oh — of  course,  not,"  he  said  slowly. 

An  hour  later  he  and  Vaughan,  the  assistant 
surgeon,  returned. 

"  Well,  there  goes  the  best  officer  in  the  serv- 
ice to  his  death,"  the  younger  man  was  say- 
ing, as  he  entered,  and  then  as  he  met  Trevel- 
yan's  wide,  questioning  eyes,  he  broke  off. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  asked  Trevelyan,  sharply. 

"  Your  substitute." 

Trevelyan  picked  at  the  sheet. 

149 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Who  did  the  old  man  send — Pearson  ?  " 

"  Pearson!  Not  on  your  life!  Stewart,  of 
course." 

Trevelyan  stopped  picking  at  the  sheet.  He 
rose  with  an  effort  and  sat  up  in  bed,  supporting 
himself  on  his  elbows  and  leaning  forward. 

"He  has  gone?" 

The  assistant  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
nodded.  Trevelyan  sat  rigid. 

"  And  I  was  never  told !  And  he's  gone 
without  coming  to  me ! "  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  He  spoke  about  it,  but  he  said  he  wouldn't 
disturb  you — "  the  assistant  broke  off. 

Suddenly,  Trevelyan  flung  up  his  arms. 

"  God !  Why  couldn't  I  have  gone !  I 
wouldn't  have  been  a  loss  to  anyone — God !  " 
he  choked,  and  fell  back,  his  face  buried  in  the 
pillow. 

The  assistant  left  the  room  and  the  surgeon 
went  to  the  window.  Once  or  twice  he 
glanced  at  the  great,  motionless  figure  on  the 
bed. 

"  Jove !  that's  genuine  enough !  Guess  I 
must  have  been  mistaken  about  the  shot !  " 


150 


VII. 

AFTER  awhile  the  surgeon  turned  from 
the  window,  came  back  to  Trevelyan 
and  stooping  over  him,  listened  to  his 
breathing,  and  felt  his  pulse.  Then  he  went 
away. 

Trevelyan  lifted  his  head  slowly  and  looked 
about  him.  The  room  was  deserted  and  he  sat 
up  in  bed  again,  grasping  its  sides.  It  was  as 
if  everything  was  slipping  away  from  him,  and 
the  agony  in  his  brain  had  crept  down  to  his 
feet,  engulfing  and  making  as  nothing  the 
throbbing  in  his  shoulder,  or  the  heat  of  the 
growing  fever. 

He  stared  at  the  shadows  cast  by  the  flick- 
ering lamp  on  the  wall  opposite.  The  vision 
of  the  trooper's  ghastly  face  had  faded  for  the 
time,  but  intenser  visions  appeared  and  shifted 
and  reappeared  again.  First  there  came  the 
shadow  face  of  his  mother,  who  had  been  dead 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


for  years,  and  then  that  of  his  father — his 
father  who  had  led  that  charge  at  Inkerman. 
The  face  seemed  turned  away.  Then  there 
came  the  face  of  the  aunt  who  had  mothered 
him  so  long,  and  then  the  shadowy  forms  hal- 
tered as  the  fever  grew  and  the  wall  became  a 
glowing  blank.  Later  a  face  appeared,  Stew- 
art's, against  the  fiery  glow.  It  looked  like  a 
dead  face — like  the  dead,  ghastly  face  of  the 
trooper;  and  then  there  came  Gary's  face.  It 
haunted  him  in  a  hundred  different  guises.  It 
came  to  him  as  the  child-face,  as  he  had  known 
it  years  ago  down  at  the  sea  coast  fort;  and  it 
faded  and  came  again  as  the  face  touched  with 
time's  maturity,  as  he  had  seen  it  when  she  first 
came  to  England;  it  shifted  again  and  reap- 
peared as  it  had  been  that  day  of  the  storm, 
when  he  and  she  had  been  housed  in  the  old 
Scottish  home  together,  and  the  tenderness  and 
the  fear  were  on  it ;  it  came  again  to  him  as  he 
had  seen  it  last  before  the  receding  transport  and 
the  oncoming  mist  had  stolen  it  away  from  him. 
And  it  came  once  more  as  he  had  never  seen  it 
— horror-stricken,  wide-eyed,  and  pale — as  he 
would  see  it,  when  she  looked  at  him  again, 
knowing  the  truth. 

152 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Allegiance — which  is  absolute."  So  she 
had  written,  and  so  she  would  say  to  him. 
And  he  had  betrayed  his  allegiance,  and  he  had 
lied,  and  he  had  turned  coward,  and  had  sent 
Stewart  off  to  die! 

His  fingers  gripped  at  the  edges  of  the  bed 
and  he  stared  fascinated  at  that  face  of  Gary 
on  the  wall — Gary  as  he  had  never  seen  her. 
It  remained  fixed.  It  would  not  fade. 

She  had  known  life's  truths  better  than  he. 
Honor,  after  all,  was  a  tangible  thing — as  tan- 
gible as  the  devouring  agony  in  his  brain. 
And  he  had  lost  his  honor — 

She  had  written  that  a  man  moulds  himself 
into  the  perfect  and  complete,  or  he  breaks  the 
clay  with  his  own  hands,  and  he  had  not  be- 
lieved her  until  now,  when  the  clay  lay  broken. 

It  had  been  coming  to  this  all  these  months, 
and  he  had  gone  on  blindly.  Gary  had  tried 
to  save  him  by  that  letter;  John  had  tried  to 
save  him,  and  had  come  out  to  this  accursed 
hole  to  serve  him,  because  he  had  been  a  coward 
and  had  written  for  him — not  strong  enough  to 
serve  himself — and  he  had  sent  John  off  to 
meet  the  death  that  he  himself  deserved.  No, 
he  was  not  worthy  of  such  a  death.  Death 

'53 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


would  glorify  John.  It  would  have  redeemed 
him. 

The  irrevocable  past  that  had  gone  from  his 
keeping  haunted  him  ghost-like  through  the 
night  watches,  as  did  the  agony  of  the  future. 

If  there  were  but  a  chance — the  shadow  of  a 
chance — of  winning  back  the  last  hours! 

If  that  face  would  only  fade ! 

And  he  had  thought  himself  so  strong,  and 
he  and  death  had  looked  each  in  the  face  of  the 
other  so  often! 

And  the  long  line  of  pictures  on  the  wall 
began  again,  fading  and  reappearing,  but  the 
face  of  Gary  did  not  fade. 

After  awhile  the  personality  of  the  face  lost 
itself  and  it  became  to  him  but  the  symbol  of 
that  high  living,  toward  the  attainment  of 
which  he  had  failed,  falling  in  the  dust. 

His  stiff  fingers  relaxed  on  the  sides  of  the 
bed,  and  he  sank  back  with  a  thud  like  a  dead 
weight.  The  dead  trooper  could  not  have 
fallen  more  heavily. 

The  wound  in  his  shoulder  was  only  a  flesh 
hurt — he  had  been  careful  of  that — he  remem- 
bered with  a  grim,  awful  self-accusation.  If  it 
only  had  gone  deeper  than  he  had  planned. 

*54 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Before  the  thought  had  died  he  was  searching 
for  his  handkerchief  and  when  he  had  found  it 
he  began  to  knot  it  feverishly  and  pull  it  around 
his  throat — sudden  strength  coming  to  his 
hands.  Then,  with  an  oath,  he  jerked  at  the 
linen  band  and  flung  it  from  him  to  the  hos- 
pital floor,  where  it  lay — a  spot  of  white  in  the 
darkness.  The  power  to  move  deserted  him, 
and  his  arms  hung  over  the  sides  of  the  bed — 
limp  and  motionless. 

And  then,  remembering  Stewart,  the  agony 
in  his  brain  increased. 

He  fancied  Stewart  starting  out  on  the  mis- 
sion, silent,  with  the  silence  that  comes  with 
the  realization  of  danger — grave  with  the  grav- 
ity of  its  acceptance — the  test  of  courage. 
Stewart  had  never  been  guided  by  the  heedless, 
passionate  impulses  that  had  possessed  him, 
Trevelyan,  all  his  life;  but  he  had  held  high 
the  standards  of  life  for  a  man,  and  he  had 
lived  up  to  the  standards. 

Trevelyan  fancied  he  saw  him  riding  into  the 
thickness  of  the  black  shadows. 

He  might  do  it,  and  come  back  from  the 
jaws  of  death.  If  a  man  could  do  it,  he 
would,  but  was  it  humanly  possible? 

'55 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan  beat  his  hands  against  his  face. 

No;  no  man  could  do  it!  The  Station 
would  wait  for  Stewart,  and  wait  and  wait, 
and  Stewart  would  not  come.  They  would  go 
to  look  for  him  and  they  would  bring  him  back 
to  him,  Trevelyan — dead.  But  he  would  not 
look  like  the  trooper.  The  vision  on  the  wall 
had  been  a  mistake. 

Long  ago,  the  night  that  Stewart  had  saved 
Gary  as  a  child,  by  his  vigil ;  he,  Trevelyan,  had 
crept  into  the  room  where  they  had  carried  him, 
and  he  was  sleeping,  exhausted.  The  peace, 
born  of  a  great  sacrifice  and  a  purpose  accom- 
plished, had  rested  on  the  boy's  face.  The 
peace  of  it  came  back  to  Trevelyan,  a  gift  from 
that  dead  year. 

When  they  brought  Stewart  home  to  the 
Station  he  would  look  so. 

And  the  minutes  turned  to  hours  and  the 
fever  increased,  and  later  Trevelyan  sank  into  a 
dose.  The  surgeons  came  in  now  and  again 
and  administered  medicines  of  which  he  was 
only  dimly  conscious,  and  the  fever  and  the 
drowsiness  grew,  and  the  long  night  wore 
away. 

156 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


In  the  early  dawn  he  was  awakened  by  the 
feeling  that  someone  was  looking  steadily  at 
him.  His  eyes,  free  from  the  fever  that  had 
gone,  met  those  of  the  assistant  surgeon. 

Before  the  full  consciousness  of  the  night's 
agony  had  come  back,  the  young  surgeon 
spoke. 

"  Stewart  has  returned,"  he  said,  quietly, 
"  but  he's  been  badly  hurt  and  he  wants  you. 
If  you  feel  strong  enough — " 

Trevelyan  sprang  to  the  floor.  He  was 
trembling  with  excitement  and  the  weakness 
left  by  the  fever. 

"  Thank  God,  he's  safe — "  and  then  as  he 
looked  more  closely  in  the  assistant's  face,  "  He 
isn't  hurt  seriously — "  his  voice  trailed  off. 

The  assistant  got  Trevelyan's  slippers  and 
threw  a  blanket  over  him  and  drew  his  arm 
through  his,  giving  him  support.  It  seemed 
strange  to  be  supporting  Trevelyan. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is,"  he  said.  "  He  did  the 
job  all  right  and  reported  like  the  soldier  he  is. 
McCann's  game,  too,  and  not  hurt.  Stew- 
art— "  The  assistant  was  killing  time. 

Trevelyan  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  face. 

157 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"Yes?" 

Vaughan  looked  straight  ahead  of  him,  to 
avoid  meeting  Trevelyan's  eyes. 

"  Mackenzie  is  with  him,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"  He's  doing  everything  ,on  earth,  but  the 
wound's  in  the  back,  and  there — isn't  the  ghost 
of  a  chance — and,  he's  sent  for  you." 


158 


VIII. 

THE  assistant  walked  slowly,  adapting 
himself  to  Trevelyan's  halting  steps, 
and  he  braced  his  arm  against  the 
weight  Trevelyan  had  thrown  upon  it.     He 
did  not  speak  again,  and  Trevelyan  did  not 
question  him  further. 

Trevelyan's  big  frame  reeled  across  the 
threshold,  when,  after  what  seemed  to  him  an 
interminable  time,  the  assistant  led  him  into 
the  room  where  Stewart  lay.  He  caught  him- 
self up  immediately,  however,  and  stared  at 
the  group  around  the  bed.  The  Colonel  was 
there  and  one  of  the  older  officers,  and  Mac- 
kenzie was  leaning  over  something  long  and 
still  that  lay  stretched  on  the  bed.  The  dead 
weight  suddenly  increased  on  Vaughan's  arm 
and  he  winced  with  the  pain.  The  two  officers 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed  turned  at  the  shuffling 
footsteps  and  Mackenzie  looked  up  for  an  in- 
stant. Then  he  went  back  to  feeling  Stewart's 

'59 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


pulse,  and  without  glancing  around  again, 
spoke  quietly  to  his  assistant. 

"  The  other  syringe —  this  doesn't  work  just 
right." 

The  assistant  went  away  and  returned  with 
the  syringe.  Trevelyan  was  left  standing 
alone  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  No  one  no- 
ticed him.  He  waited  until  the  hypodermic 
stimulant  had  been  administered  and  Macken- 
zie had  straightened  himself  from  his  stooping 
position  over  the  bed.  Then  he  came  forward, 
and  pushed  his  way  past  the  Colonel  and  the 
officer  and  Vaughan  and  Mackenzie,  and  leaned 
over  the  bed. 

"  John,"  he  said. 

The  head  turned  on  the  pillow  slowly,  and 
Stewart  looked  up  at  him.  He  made  an  almost 
imperceptible  motion  of  recognition  with  his 
head. 

"You  sent  for  me?" 

"  Yes,"  Stewart  said,  weakly. 

Trevelyan  remained  motionless,  and  no  one 
spoke.  The  Colonel,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
stirred  a  little. 

Stewart's  hot  hands  drew  the  covering  up 
between  his  fingers  and  crushed  it  with  a  sud- 

160 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


den  strength,  born  of  a  terrible  agony.     He 
turned  his  eyes  to  Mackenzie. 

"If  you  could  get  me  more  on  my  side — 
that's  better." 

Mackenzie  leaned  over  him. 

"  Don't  try  to  talk  to  Trevelyan  just  yet,"  he 
suggested. 

"  I  must.  If  you'd  all  leave  us  for  a  lit- 
tle—" 

"You  won't  wait?" 

Stewart  looked  straight  into  Mackenzie's 
eyes. 

"There's  no  waiting;  there's  no  'yet' — is 
there  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mackenzie  stared  at  the  covering  on  the  bed. 

"  You're  pretty  sick,"  he  said,  very  slowly, 
and  he  tried  to  say  something  else,  but  the 
words  refused  to  come. 

He  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room  and 
Vaughan  and  the  officers  followed  him. 

Trevelyan  still  remained  motionless. 

"  Have  they  gone  ?  "  Stewart  asked,  looking 
up  at  him,  "  I  can't  turn  my  head  to  see." 

"  They've  gone,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"  Then  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed — 
carefully,  if  you  can;  jars  hurt.  I've  a  good 

161 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


deal  to  say  and  the  time's  short — Mackenzie 
will  be  back  before  long." 

"  You  want  to  give  me  messages  ?  " 
'  "  No,"  said  Stewart,  "  It's  about  yourself. 
Why  were  you  afraid  ?  " 

The  lump  in  Trevelyan's  throat  broke,  and 
something  of  the  old  strength  came  back  then. 

"  It  was  Gary,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  I  thought  so.  It  was  a  risky  thing  to  have 
tried,  though — that  shooting.  It  might  have 
gone  deeper,  or  someone  else  might  have  seen 
you." 

"  You — saw — me — then  ?  " 

Stewart  nodded.  Speaking  was  exquisite 
torture. 

"  Do  you  realize  what  you've  done — that 
you've  broken  your  life — " 

Trevelyan  sat  motionless  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  of  the  pillow. 
The  agony  of  the  night  before  had  been  as 
nothing  to  this. 

"  You  were  an  officer  and  you  were  afraid  of 
danger — you!  And  you  were  coward  enough 
to  be  willing  to  send  another  man  to  his  death 
— "  the  young  engineer  broke  off,  breathing 
with  labor.  "  You  were  willing  to  let  me  die. 

162 


"  You-saw-me-then?" 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Did  you  think  that  would  make  it  easier  to  win 
Gary?" 

Then  Trevelyan  spoke. 

"  It's  all  true,"  he  said,  speaking  so  slowly 
that  each  word  fell  upon  the  deathly  stillness 
in  the  room,  like  the  slow  thud  of  earth  upon  a 

coffin,    "  It's— all— true but   that!     I   was 

afraid  and  I  was  all  you  say,  coward  enough  to 
let  another  man  die  or  suffer  as  you  are  suffer- 
ing now;  and  I've  dishonored  the  Service  and 
I've  broken  my  life,  but  before  God,  I  didn't 
know  that  you'd  be  sent  in  my  place.  As  for 
Gary—" 

"  For  Gary,"  said  Stewart,  "  and  for  your 
father  and  my  mother  you're  to  swear  to  me 
to  hold  your  tongue  over  this  business.  It's 
like  you  to  go  and  blurt  the  whole  thing  out, 
but  you're  to  swear  you  won't  open  your  lips 
on  the  subject — ever ;  and  you're  to  resign  your 
commission  in  the  Service  as  soon  as  it's  possi- 
ble without  exciting  suspicion." 

Trevelyan  drew  back;  his  throat  pulsing. 
There  was  the  old,  odd  throbbing  in  his  head, 
and  the  dimness  of  vision,  too.  After  awhile 
the  mist  passed. 

"  God !  man,  but  you're  hard ! " 

163 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I'm  kind  to  the  home  people,  and  I'm  just 
with  you — am  I  not?" 

"  Yes ;  oh,  yes ;  but  to  bear  it  in  silence — 
never  to  be  able  to  meet  one  of  the  men  of 
the  mess  without  the  dead  haunting  shadow 
of  it  on  me;  to  leave  the  Service — that's  the 
worst  of  all — never  to  be  able  to  fight  for  Eng- 
land again  as  a  soldier,  or  redeem  myself — as  a 
man!" 

He  rose  from  the  bed  and  went  over  to  the 
opposite  wall,  flinging  his  bent  arm  against  it 
and  leaning  forward,  his  face  hid.  Stewart 
watched  him  from  the  bed,  his  eyes  reflecting 
a  great  pity.  If  Trevelyan  knew  half  of  what 
his  judgment  cost  him!  If  Trevelyan  only 
knew  how  gladly  he  was  dying  in  his  stead! 
If  only  Trevelyan  knew  that  he  was  more  kind 
than  cruel! 

Through  the  window,  into  the  absolute  quiet 
of  the  room,  came  the  hurrying  of  feet  and  the 
neighing  of  horses.  The  Colonel  was  sending 
out  a  squad  of  armed  men  to  strike  to  the  heart 
of  the  native  trouble.  Somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance a  bugler  was  playing. 

Trevelyan  turned,  his  back  to  the  wall,  his 
arms  flung  out. 

164 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Isn't  there  any  other  way  ?  " 

Stewart  struggled  to  a  reclining  position, 
supporting  himself  on  one  arm,  and  he  sum- 
moned all  his  love  and  all  his  mercy. 

"  You  injured  me,"  he  said.  "  Mackenzie 
says  I  can't  pull  through  the  day — but  if  I 
should,  I'm  injured  for  life.  I  have  a  right  to 
judge  you.  There  is  no  other  way." 

The  music  of  the  bugle  rose,  and  swelled, 
and  then  melted  away. 

Trevelyan  came  back  to  the  bed — passive ! 

"  I'll  swear  anything  you  ask." 

Then  a  little  later : 

"Am  I  to  tell  Gary?" 

"  You  are  to  tell  Gary  or  not,  as  you  want 
to,"  said  Stewart,  looking  at  him  curiously. 

"  Is  there  nothing  I  can  say  to  Gary  for  you 
— when — when  I — get  back  to  England  ?  " 

Stewart  shook  his  head.  The  weakness  he 
had  fought  against  so  long  came  back,  as  did 
the  agony. 

"  Nothing ;  but  that  I  thought  of  her — of 
them  all.  Can  you  reach  that  water  ?  Ah !  " 
.  Trevelyan  flung  himself  down  by  the  bed. 

"  You  shan't  slip  off  this  way !  "  he  said, 
tensely,  the  pain  of  his  own  crushed  life  disap- 

,65 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


pearing  before  the  thought  of  Stewart's  ebbing 
one. 

Stewart  did  not  hear  him. 

"Call  Mackenzie,"  he  said,  shortly,  "Call 
Mackenzie — quick !  " 


166 


IX. 


OUTSIDE  the  hurrying  and  the  tramping 
and   the   neighing  of   the   horses   in- 
creased   and    intensified    the    silence 
inside  where  Stewart  lay  unconscious,  Macken- 
zie and  Vaughan  and  Trevelyan  working  over 
him. 

Later  in  the  morning  the  fighting  squad  de- 
parted, and  over  the  Station  fell  a  stillness  as 
great  as  that  which  brooded  over  the  hospital. 

After  a  desperate  struggle  they  brought 
Stewart  to,  and  then  Mackenzie,  happening  to 
glance  at  Trevelyan,  saw  that  the  dressing  had 
slipped  from  his  shoulder  and  that  his  shirt 
was  stained. 

He  got  him  into  an  adjoining  room  and  re- 
dressed the  shoulder  and  insisted  on  his  lying 
down,  in  spite  of  Trevelyan' s  entreaties  to  get 
back  to  Stewart. 

"  Everything  in  the  world  is  being  done  for 
him.  Keep  quiet." 

167 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Keep  quiet,  while  his  life's  slipping 
away ! "  cried  Trevelyan,  fiercely,  "  Not  while 
there's  a  breath  left  in  my  own  body.  I'll 
pull  him  through  or  I'll  die !  " 

"  You'll  lie  still,  just  where  you  are,"  or- 
dered Mackenzie.  "  He's  holding  his  own  just 
now.  He'll  need  all  the  strength  he's  got,  and 
yours,  and  all  he  can  get — later.  I'll  call  you." 

Trevelyan  slept  for  two  hours — heavily,  ex- 
haustively ;  then  Mackenzie  woke  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  briefly,  "  Stewart's 
worse." 

Trevelyan  sat  up  on  the  lounge  and  flung 
back  his  head;  through  his  being  thrilled  the 
old  lost  defiance;  the  old  lost  strength.  He 
went  into  Stewart's  room  and  sat  down  by  the 
bed. 

The  long  hours  crept  away  and  the  still  shad- 
ows of  night  gathered,  and  through  the  hours 
and  the  shadows  Mackenzie  and  Trevelyan 
watched.  Stewart  continued  to  sink. 

At  midnight,  Mackenzie  went  over  to  the 
window,  turning  his  back  on  the  bed  and  Tre- 
velyan. 

There  was  no  hope — but  Trevelyan  wouldn't 
believe  it!  Stewart  was  dying,  and  Trevelyan 

168 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


obstinately  refused  to  relinquish  the  fight. 
Trevelyan  didn't  know  when  he  was  beaten. 
And  Mackenzie,  grown  prematurely  gray  in 
the  service  of  life  against  death,  wondered  all 
over  again  why  human  strength  is  so  weak 
when  waged  against  the  great,  mute  Force  of 
the  world. 

Trevelyan  sat  rigid;  and  he  gathered  all  the 
strength  of  his  life  and  his  love;  and  that  im- 
perishable part  that  had  been  crushed  by  his 
crime,  but  not  destroyed,  and  turned  them  to 
the  conquering  of  this  hour,  and  that  grim 
Presence  that  was  drawing  nearer. 

He  had  ceased  to  think  of  himself  and  the 
future  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  fallen.  If 
it  ever  once  occurred  to  him,  he  regarded  it 
vaguely  and  indifferently.  To-morrow,  he 
would  wake  up  to  the  living  death  that  lay 
before  him,  but  for  the  present,  he  had  no 
thought  beyond  the  still,  motionless  form 
stretched  on  the  bed.  He  concentrated  all  his 
passion,  all  his  will  strength,  and  massed  them 
together,  as  a  breastwork,  around  Stewart's 
ebbing  life. 

The  grasp  of  the  hand  that  was  clasping  his 
grew  weaker. 

169 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan  did  not  think  to  call  Mackenzie. 
He  had  forgotten  he  was  over  there  by  the  win- 
dow; that  they  three,  Stewart  and  Death  and 
he,  Trevelyan,  were  not  alone  together.  He 
forced  stimulant  between  Stewart's  blue  lips. 
And  then  he  went  in  search  of  Stewart's  ebbing 
life,  as  a  swimmer  goes  down  into  the  depths 
to  bring  forth  a  living  man,  drowning. 

Once  the  chill  of  the  Shadowy  Presence 
touched  him,  through  the  growing  chill  of 
Stewart's  fingers ;  and  he  rubbed  them,  beating 
back  into  the  icy  veins  the  heat  of  his  nature, 
and  by  and  by  the  Shadowy  Presence  sullenly 
drew  back,  and  back,  and  back. 

After  a  time,  Mackenzie,  aroused  by  the  op- 
pressive stillness,  turned. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  came  to  the  bed  and 
leaned  over  Stewart's  relaxed  form.  Stewart's 
face  was  turned  up  to  his,  drawn  and  thin  and 
pinched,  in  the  light  of  the  failing  lamp,  but  he 
was  breathing  regularly.  Mackenzie  touched 
one  of  his  hands.  It  was  moist  and  warm. 
And  then,  dumbly,  he  turned  to  Trevelyan. 

Trevelyan  still  sat  by  the  bed,  rigid ;  and  his 
eyes  looked  back  at  Mackenzie — dull  and  spir- 

170 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


itless,  and  his  fingers  were  cold,  with  the  chill 
of  the  depths. 

Mackenzie  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

Trevelyan  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"  If  you  could  give  me  a  bracer.  I'm  a  bit 
gone  off — " 


X. 


TREVELYAN'S   hurt  shoulder  healed 
rapidly,  and  two  weeks  later,  Mac- 
kenzie  discharged  him,   and   he   re- 
ported for  duty  again. 

"  The  row's  all  over,  I  hear,"  he  said  later, 
to  the  little  subaltern. 

The  little  subaltern  nodded  ruefully. 

"  Yes,  and  holy  smoke,  didn't  the  chicken- 
hearted  things  run  when  they  caught  sight  of 
us.  We  gave  it  to  'em  hot,  though!  Guess 
they'll  let  off  their  funny  business  for  a  time, 
and — "  the  little  subaltern  grew  suddenly 
sober,  "  Of  course,  you've  heard  about  Pearson 
and  Bennett  and  the  men  ?  " 

Trevelyan  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  the  little  subaltern  never 
knew  how  gladly  Trevelyan  would  lay  down 
his  life  if  he  could  have  Pearson's  or  Bennett's 
chance — or  the  chance  of  the  men. 

172 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan  went  down  the  long  piazza  to  his 
own  quarters. 

He  had  been  in  the  hospital  having  his  shoul- 
der dressed  and  caring  for  Stewart,  who  was 
still  ill;  when  they  had  brought  Pearson  and 
Bennett  and  the  men  back  to  the  Station. 

And  through  all  the  years  of  his  life  he 
would  never  have  Pearson's  or  Bennett's 
chance,  or  the  chance  of  Pearson's  or  Bennett's 
burial.  He  would  die  as  other  men  died,  who 
had  failed  in  life;  he  would  never  be  brought 
back  from  the  front;  he  would  never  fall  de- 
fending the  Service  and  England. 


A  month  later  he  filed  his  resignation  papers, 
preparatory  to  having  them  endorsed  and  sent 
to  the  War  Office. 

The  Colonel  was  in  a  fighting  humor  when 
the  matter  was  brought  up  to  him  next  day! 
The  son  of  Trevelyan  of  Inkerman  fame! 
And  he  sent  for  Trevelyan  and  talked  to  him  of 
his  duty  to  the  Service,  and  the  Queen,  and 
the  colonial  policy  of  England,  and  a  good 
deal  more;  but  Trevelyan  was  firm.  The  Col- 
onel grew  apoplectic;  still,  Trevelyan  was  un- 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


moved.  Then,  the  Colonel,  who  had  never  lost 
a  battle  in  his  life,  retreated  ungraciously,  try- 
ing to  think  of  some  reason  why  the  order 
should  not  be  endorsed  and — failed.  He  had 
inquired  into  the  shoulder  affair,  but  that  was 
explained  by  the  little  subaltern,  who  testified 
that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  Trevelyan  the 
moment  before  the  shot.  Trevelyan  had  been 
all  eagerness  to  go.  He  had  not  paid  any  at- 
tention to  the  report,  thinking  some  of  the  men 
were  probably  practicing  at  target.  The  Col- 
onel had  gone  over  that  matter  carefully. 
Then,  in  spite  of  the  injury,  Trevelyan  had 
offered  to  undertake  the  survey — the  Colonel 
could  not  get  around  that — even  though  he  was 
not  fit.  Trevelyan  might  have  been  unpopular 
in  the  regiment,  but  he  had  always  done  his 
duty  as  an  officer  of  the  Service.  And  so  the 
Colonel  wrathfully  saw  the  application  go  off 
on  the  next  mail  to  England. 

And  then  Trevelyan  waited ;  waited  as  a  man 
waits  for  the  warrant  that  is  to  close  his  lease 
on  life ;  and,  as  though  to  make  the  most  of  the 
time  remaining,  when  he  was  not  on  duty,  or 
with  Stewart  in  the  hospital,  he  was  with  the 
younger  officers'of  the  mess.  They  grew,  then, 

174 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


to  know  a  new  phase  in  his  character.  He  no 
longer  closed  the  door  of  his  quarters  on  them ; 
it  was  Trevelyan's  room  to  which  they  flocked ; 
it  was  Trevelyan  who  joked  them  and  teased 
them  and  smoked  with  them,  and  who  played 
tennis  with  the  garrison  girls,  and  drank  tea 
with  the  officers'  wives ;  it  was  Trevelyan,  with 
his  great  strength  and  courage,  who  shared 
their  pastimes  and  helped  to  kill  the  long,  in- 
active days  that  had  settled  back  over  the 
Station  like  a  pall.  Even  the  little  subaltern 
ceased  to  dress  up  regardless  in  white  linen  and 
go  and  drink  tea  with  Jessica  Q,  and  became 
Trevelyan's  shadow  instead. 

Weeks  later  the  official  acceptance  of  the 
resignation  came.  It  was  handed  to  him  at 
mess.  He  glanced  at  it  indifferently  and  laid 
it  to  one  side.  Later,  he  left.  He  did  not  join 
the  crowd  that  evening.  He  went  back  to  his 
own  quarters  and  closed  the  door  and  drew  to 
the  covering  at  the  window,  and  he  sat  down 
in  the  dark  and  fought  it  out  alone. 

Two  hours  after  he  went  over  to  the  hos- 
pital to  make  his  nightly  inquiry  for  Stewart. 

Stewart  had  had  a  bad  day,  they  told  him. 
It  was  a  case  for  time. 

J75 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  did  not  go  in  to  see  Stewart  that  night. 

He  wished  that  he  could  have  waited  and 
taken  Stewart  home,  he  thought,  as  he  re- 
traced his  steps  to  his  dark  bungalow,  but  it 
might  be  months  before  Stewart  could  bear  the 
journey,  and  Stewart  would  not  hear  of  his 
waiting.  Perhaps,  it  was  because  Stewart  was 
not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  sight  of  Trevel- 
yan's  face,  with  its  imprint  of  despair ;  it  might 
have  been  he  fancied  something  of  the  despair 
would  lift  when  Trevelyan  was  once  again  in 
Scotland.  At  any  rate,  he  had  ordered  Tre- 
velyan home  and  Trevelyan  had  planned  to 
leave — alone. 

The  next  day  he  dismantled  his  quarters  and 
made  his  preparations.  He  packed  his  uni- 
forms and  his  helmets  and  his  sword,  and  sent 
them  home — to  Scotland,  to  Mactier's  care. 

In  the  morning  he  put  on  civilian's  clothes 
and  left  the  Station. 


The  stretch  of  distant  land  grew  clearer  with 
each  throb  of  the  ship  engine's  heart. 

The  long  voyage  was  over  and  Trevelyan 
was  coming  back  to  England. 

176 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


And  he  had  betrayed  his  allegiance  to  Eng- 
land because  he  had  loved!  *  *  * 

He  leaned  over  the  ship's  rail  and  looked  idly 
at  the  whirling  foam,  that  beat  an  angry  protest 
at  its  birth  against  the  ship's  great  side,  and 
then  grew  less  and  lost  itself  in  the  deep  waters 
of  the  Channel. 

Had  he  loved  Gary?  he  questioned.  Had 
he  not  mistaken  the  baser  passion  for  the 
diviner  love  that  alone  is  built  on  honor? 

She  had  told  him  to  mould  himself  into  the 
divine  and  he  had  broken  the  clay  instead. 

His  eyes  rested  somberly  on  the  long  green 
line  of  land.  All  his  honor  and  allegiance, 
with  which  he  had  broken  faith,  came  back  to 
him  and  filled  him  with  unspeakable  emotion. 

He  would  stoop  and  he  would  gather  up  the 
broken  pieces  and  remould  them  for  the  service 
of  England. 

End  of  Book  Two. 


177 


BOOK  THREE 


THE  & 

POTTER'S     TOUCH 


BOOK   THREE 
THE  POTTER'S  TOUCH 


THE  long  months  had  swelled  into  two 
years    and    more    before    Trevelyan 
came  home — to  England  and  to  Gary. 
Gary  and  the  Captain  had  spent  one  winter  in 
Palestine  and  on  the  Nile,  and  the  summers  in 
travel.     When  the  Captain  mildly  suggested 
Italy  or  a  return  to  America  on  the  dawning  of 
the  second  winter,  Gary  shook  her  head  and 
begged  for  London  and  the  old  lodgings.  Gary, 
for  some  reason  never  spoke  of  going  home 
now.     And  so  the  Captain  took  her  back  to 
London,  and  Gary  seemed  to  enjoy  the  great 
familiar  city,  better  than  all  the  sights  and  nov- 
elties of  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land. 

The  weekly  gift  of  violets  or  of  roses  began 
again  with  her  return  to  England.  Now  and 
then,  letters  came  from  John,  but  they  were 

,78 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


not  frequent,  and  were,  to  Gary's  critical  judg- 
ment, unsatisfactory.  Of  course,  she  was  glad 
to  hear  of  the  life  of  the  Station,  and  what  the 
men  and  officers  did  to  pass  the  off-duty  time; 
and  how  the  army  women  spent  the  days  in 
India,  and  how  they  all  kept  cool — or  tried  to. 
It  was  kind  of  John,  too,  to  think  to  tell  her  all 
the  details,  and  the  account  of  their  hunting 
trip  and  the  "  man-eater  "  Trevelyan  had  killed, 
— Gary  wondered  if  the  skin  was  for  her — and 
what  their  quarters  looked  like,  but  somehow 
Gary  wanted  more.  She  wasn't  quite  sure 
what  she  did  want;  perhaps  she  told  herself 
it  was  some  more  definite  mention  of  Trevel- 
yan. Trevelyan  never  wrote. 

She  thought  of  Trevelyan  often,  and  in  the 
silences  of  the  night  she  would  sometimes  re- 
call the  blackness  and  the  thunder  of  that  Scot- 
tish storm,  and  the  terror  of  the  hour  without 
its  charm  would  come  back  to  her  and  she 
would  cower  among  her  white  pillows  and 
shut,  very  fast,  her  eyes. 

In  the  fall  the  Camerons  had  asked  her  to  a 
house  party  but  for  some  reason  she  herself 
could  not  define,  she  sent  regrets.  The  Camer- 
ons' place  was  so  near  his  home!  She  won- 

179 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


dered  if  it  were  because  he  would  not  be  there, 
or  if  she  would  be  afraid  when  she  saw  his 
home  again.  When  Trevelyan  came  back — 

But  she  was  lonelier  in  the  late  afternoon 
when  the  Captain  had  gone  to  walk,  than  at  any 
part  of  the  day,  and  she  would  sit  with  idle 
hands  folded  in  her  lap  and  look  at  the  silent 
little  tea-kettle  on  the  tea-table;  or  rise  and 
watch  the  sunset,  quite  alone.  She  wasn't  ever 
afraid  then,  she  was  only  unutterably  lonely! 
Perhaps  when  Trevelyan  came  back — 

And  then  Trevelyan  did  come  back.  She 
heard  it  from  the  Captain  one  afternoon,  and 
it  was  then  the  Captain  told  her,  gently,  of  the 
delayed  accounts  of  Stewart's  and  Trevelyan's 
part  in  the  native  struggle.  There  were  no 
details  regarding  them ;  it  was  only  known  cer- 
tainly, that  both  Stewart  and  Trevelyan  had 
been  hurt ;  that  Stewart  was  still  ill  at  the  Sta- 
tion, and  that  Trevelyan  had  sent  in  a  resigna- 
tion. His  return  was  expected.  They  would 
have  to  wait. 

They  waited;  and  Cary  grew  older  in  the 
waiting. 

Little  by  little  details  were  added  to  the 
story,  and  she  would  go  around  to  the  Stew- 

180 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


arts'  and  talk  it  over  with  John's  mother  and 
John's  sister,  and  women-like  they  would  try 
to  fit  the  ill-formed  pieces  together. 

Then  she  would  go  back  slowly  to  the 
lodgings. 

She  had  waited  so  long  for  Trevelyan  to 
come  home,  and  she  had  thought  to  welcome 
him  in  promotion;  she  had  dreamed  that  some 
day  Trevelyan  would  do  something  great  for 
the  Service  and  for  England;  she  had  believed 
it,  and  now  —  Trevelyan  was  coming  home  — 
resigned;  and  all  her  dreams  and  all  her  faith 
had  not  been  worth  while. 


181 


II. 


TREVELYAN  had  landed.  The  Cap- 
tain saw  it  in  the  morning  paper  and 
read  the  item  out  to  Gary.  The  ship 
had  gotten  in  a  day  before  it  had  been  looked 
for. 

Gary  pushed  back  her  untasted  cup  of  coffee, 
and  she  remained  in  doors  all  day,  uncon- 
sciously listening  for  his  footfall  on  the  stairs, 
and  when  night  came  without  bringing  him, 
she  laughed  at  herself  for  fancying  that  he 
would  come  direct  to  her. 

It  was  three  days  before  he  did  come  and 
she  met  him  on  the  stairs.  She  was  about  to 
do  some  delayed  shopping,  and  as  she  was 
going  down,  she  met  him  coming  up.  She 
turned  and  they  went  back  to  the  quiet  little 
sitting  room  together,  and  she  ran  over  to  the 
window  impetuously  and  flung  back  the  cur- 
tains. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said,  gaily,  "  I  can  scarcely 

182 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


believe  it  is  you,  yourself !  Come  here,  and  let 
me  see  your  Indian  tan !  " 

He  smiled  a  little,  obeying  her,  but  he  did 
not  meet  her  eyes. 

Could  he  ever  tell  her?  he  wondered. 

"  Why  you  haven't  got  half  the  tan  I  ex- 
pected !  You're  not  chocolate  at  all !  "  she  said 
like  a  grieved  child. 

He  forgot  the  haunting  shadow  for  a  mo- 
ment and  he  laughed  genuinely. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  don't  please  you." 

"  You  don't  please  me  at  all,"  Gary  pouted. 
"  You're  not  chocolate,  and  you  haven't  re- 
turned a  captain,  and  you're  not  in  uniform 
with  a  medal  on  your  breast,  and  what  is  worse 
than  everything,  you've  grown  chicken-hearted 
and  turned  your  back  on  the  Service  and  run 
away." 

He  winced. 

"And  you're  as  solemn  as  a  funeral,  and  you 
haven't  told  me  you're  glad  to  see  me,  and  — 
you  don't  please  me  at  all ! " 

"  That's  a  nice  greeting  for  a  chap !  " 

"  Well — you  deserve  it !  "  Gary  retorted ; 
then  she  brightened  up,  "  And  you  really  got 
hurt  ?  Did  it  come  just  '  within  a  shade  of  a 

183 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


vital  spot/   like  it  always  does  in  the  story 
books?" 

"  I  got  a  scratch." 

"  Good  boy !  How  did  it  happen  ?  You 
must  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Was 
it  one  of  those  horrid  natives  ?  " 

Trevelyan  sat  down  near  the  window  in  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  curtains.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  head  and  pressed  it  there  tightly  for  a 
moment. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  It  wasn't  one  of  the  natives. 
It  was  my  own  revolver." 

"What?" 

Trevelyan  faltered. 

"  Must  you  hear  the  story  to-day?  Won't 
you  wait?  It's  so  long  since  I've  seen  you — " 

If  this  brief  hour  could  only  be  his,  un- 
spoiled, to  remember! 

"  Don't  be  aggravating,"  said  Gary,  "  I'm 
interested,  and  I  want  to  hear."  She  could  not 
have  told  why  a  dull  weight  should  suddenly 
have  laid  itself  upon  her. 

Trevelyan  sat  silent. 

"  First,"  he  said  presently,  playing  with  the 
tassel  of  the  curtain  cord,  "  first,  let  me  tell  you 
about  John." 

184. 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  flushed.  She  had  forgotten  John  in 
the  dread  that  lay  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  please  tell  me  about  John.  Is  he  com- 
ing home  soon  ?  " 

"  When  he  is  able  to  bear  the  journey  — 
and  I  believe  a  little  before.  He  is  sick  for  a 
sight  of  England."  Trevelyan  let  the  last 
words  fall  slowly.  He  had  thought  to  add 
"  of  you." 

After  a  moment  he  went  on. 

"  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Mackenzie — the  sur- 
geon, you  know — before  I  left.  He  says  the 
wound  hurt  something  in  the  back  and  went 
clear  through  to  the  lung.  He'll  have  to  get 
out  of  the  Service." 

Gary  rose  quickly.  She  went  over  to  the 
piano  and  stood  there  pressing  her  hands 
against  the  top  and  hiding  her  face  on  them. 

"  It's  too  cruel,"  she  moaned,  "  both  you  fel- 
lows— out  of  the  Service !  Ifs  too  cruel! " 

Trevelyan  knit  and  unknit  his  fingers,  and 
was  silent. 

"He'll  be  all  right— in  time,"  he  said 
slowly,  with  a  dim  idea  of  giving  her  comfort, 
"  but  he  just  won't  be  physically  strong  enough 
again  for  the  army." 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"And  you've  resigned !  " 

Trevelyan  still  sat  in  the  shadows  cast  by  the 
curtains.  He  was  massing  all  his  courage  and 
his  strength  against  his  love. 

"  Gary !  "  She  raised  her  head  from  her 
arms,  and  she  shivered  at  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
without  knowing  why.  "  Gary,  if  you'll  come 
over  here — I'll  tell  you  why — "  he  broke  off. 

She  obeyed  him  mechanically. 

"  Sit  down." 

She  did  as  he  bade  her. 

"Shall  I  light  the  lamp?"  she  faltered. 
"  The  days  are  short  and — and  it's  dark — " 

"  No,  not  yet.  Sit  here  where  I  can  see 
your  face  by  the  fire.  There !  Like  that !  " 

And  then  he  began  on  the  cause  and  the  de- 
tails of  the  native  trouble.  She  moved  rest- 
lessly. She  did  not  understand  the  technicali- 
ties very  well,  and  the  odd  dread  and  oppression 
would  not  lift.  She  was  conscious  that  Trevel- 
yan's  voice  filled  the  room,  but  she  scarcely 
heeded  his  words.  And  then  he  told  her  of 
Stewart  and  something  of  what  Stewart  had 
tried  to  do  for  him,  and  grew  eloquent  over  it, 
and  she  forgot  herself  and  the  dread  in  listening 

186 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


to  him.  Even  on  the  day  of  the  storm  in  Scot- 
land, when  he  had  told  her  the  stories  of  his 
childhood,  he  had  not  been  as  eloquent  as  this. 
Then  he  halted.  After  a  while  he  resumed. 
He  did  not  pause  again,  but  went  on  rapidly 
with  the  old  resoluteness  born  afresh,  now  that 
he  had  once  begun.  He  continued  steadily, 
mercilessly,  leading  up  to  the  heart  of  it  as  he 
would  have  aimed  at  and  hit  the  bull's  eye  at 
target  practice  with  an  unerring  hand. 

"And  the  Colonel  ordered  me  to  make  the 
survey.  It  meant  danger  and  probable  death, 
and — I  was  afraid.  I  shot  myself  to  prevent 
going.  I  lied  about  it.  I  said  the  revolver 
had  gone  off.  He  sent  John." 

He  leaned  forward,  grim  with  the  grimness 
of  despair,  and  the  moisture  came  out  on  his 
face  and  his  throbbing  throat,  but  she  did  not 
see  his  face,  she  only  heard  the  words  that  fell 
heavily  on  the  silence. 

She  rose  to  her  feet ;  he  could  see  her,  in  the 
beauty  of  her  height,  silhouetted  against  the 
bright  firelight.  Her  breast  was  rising  and 
falling  quickly  with  emotion. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  cried.     "  There  is 

is/ 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


nothing  that  will  make  me  believe  it!  Why, 
you're  not  afraid  of  anything!  You  to  turn 
coward ! " 

She  paused,  waiting  for  his  denial,  and  re- 
mained standing. 

He  rose  too;  came  from  out  of  the  shadows 
and  sat  down  in  the  Captain's  big  chair  by  the 
fire,  where  she  could  see  and  read  his^face. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  repeated. 

It  was  as  if  he  knew  no  other  word. 

She  went  over  to  him  and  dropped  down  by 
the  chair,  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Tell  me  that  it  isn't  true,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  tell  me  that  it  isn't  true,  I'll  believe  you 
against  the  world." 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said. 

The  girl  pressed  the  palms  of  her  hands 
against  her  cheeks  and  drew  them  slowly  down, 
away  from  her  face. 

Suddenly  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  leant  over, 
looking  steadily  into  his  face. 

The  shadowy  spaces  at  the  ends  of  the  room 
grew  and  came  to  meet  each  other. 

She  looked  down  into  his  face  searchingly 
and  in  silence,  and  he  met  her  look  as  a  brave 
man  meets  death  —  squarely.  Her  hand 

1 88 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


dropped  from  his  shoulder  and  fell  at  her  side 
lifelessly.  She  shrank  away. 

"  Good  God,"  she  whispered. 

She  went  over  into  the  shadows,  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out,  motionless.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  look  at  him 
again. 

"  John  saw  me,"  said  Trevelyan,  over  by 
the  fire,  "  and  he  swore  me  to  keep  quiet  about 
it — except  to  you ;  he  left  that  to  me  to  decide 
— he  made  me  swear  to  resign.  I  wasn't  fit 
to  serve  England." 

He  spoke  without  emotion  and  briefly,  stat- 
ing facts. 

After  awhile  he  went  over  to  her  in  an  un- 
certain manner.  She  shrank  closer  to  the 
window. 

"  Don't  come  near  me,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  The 
minutes  passed. 

"  If  you  would  say  something  to  me, — "  he 
began,  looking  toward  her. 

She  came  out  of  the  shadows  into  the  fire- 
light. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  say,"  she  said,  and  her 

189 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


face  looked  then  like  the  face  on  the  hospital 
wall. 

"  I  know  it,"  he  answered. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
turned  quickly  and  fell  down  by  a  chair,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  its  cushions,  and  sobbing  as 
though  to  break  her  heart. 

Trevelyan  did  not  move  to  go  to  her ;  he  did 
not  even  look  at  her  as  she  was  crying  there 
over  his  lost  honor.  Honor  was  so  much  to 
her.  He  had  always  known  it.  Perhaps  it 
was  for  that  he  had  first  loved  her. 

After  awhile  she  moved  and  leaned  one  el- 
bow on  the  seat  of  her  chair,  her  cheek  in  her 
hand.  She  turned  her  face,  looking  into  his. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  to  be  cruel,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  caught  in  sobs  as  she  spoke.  "  I 
was — selfish.  I — was  only  thinking  of — 
myself.  Of — of  how  I'd  trusted  you,  and — 
and  that!  But  oh,  I'm — so  sorry  for — you. 
I — "  she  broke  off,  impatiently  brushing  the 
tears  away  with  her  hand. 

Trevelyan  stared  into  the  fire. 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I 
can  bear  anything  but — that !  " 

"  What — what  made  you — afraid  ?  " 

190 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  left  the  big  chair  by  the  fire  and  came 
over  to  where  she  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  and 
looked  down  at  her. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  should  never  see  you  again," 
he  said.  "  I — "  and  he  put  out  his  hand  as 
though  to  touch  her  hair,  "  I  wish — well  I 
wish,  I  had  known  there  was  something  be- 
sides you  in  the  world !  " 

She  said  nothing. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  "  she 
asked  after  awhile. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "  / — don't 
• — know! " 

He  turned  abruptly  and  picked  up  his  coat 
and  hat.  He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands  in 
parting.  Gary  had  used  to  help  him  on  with 
his  coat  and  shake  hands,  but  Gary  did  not 
move  to-night.  He  walked  over  to  the  door, 
turning  to  look  back  at  her. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said,  in  a  matter  of  fact 
way,  "  Good-bye." 

Gary  sat  motionless  and  she  looked  up  at 
him  dumbly. 

"Good-bye."  he  repeated. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  slowly. 

Trevelyan  took  the  night  train  home — to 

191 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Scotland  and  to  old  Mactier.  Perhaps  up  there, 
he  would  learn  "  what  he  was  going  to  do 
now." 

Gary  sat  motionless,  in  the  shadows,  by  the 
big  chair.  After  awhile  she  crept  over  to  the 
dead  fire  and  stared  at  the  white  ashes.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  all  her  faith  was  dead. 


192 


III. 


AFTER  Trevelyan  had  come  and  gone, 
each  day  seemed  to  Gary  like  the  one 
before;  and  they  all  stretched  out, 
crushed  and  dead  and  lifeless,  as  a  string  of 
pearls  from  which  the  luster  has  disappeared. 

After  awhile  there  were  rumors  that  Stew- 
art was  coming  home;  that  Stewart  was  mak- 
ing a  desperate  effort  to  come  home — to  Eng- 
land. London  was  agog — Stewart's  part  of 
London.  Everyone  by  this  time  had  gotten  a 
pretty  clear  idea  of  affairs,  and  because  Stewart 
had  come  up  to  what  they  had  expected  of  him, 
and  had  faced  danger  and  death  like  the  soldier 
he  was,  and  had  generally  conducted  himself 
like  a  gentleman, — London  was  pleased.  Lon- 
don, like  a  woman,  derived  satisfaction  in  say- 
ing, "  I  always  knew  it.  I  told  you  so." 

Little  by  little  the  excitement  penetrated 
Gary's  inertia.  After  all,  it  was  not  quite  fair 
that  because  one  man  had  broken  her  faith  and 

'93 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


his  honor,  she  should  judge  all  men  by  him. 
John  had  not  failed  her.  Perhaps  John  would 
pull  things  straight  again  for  her,  and  make 
her  see  life  as  she  ought. 

The  warm  days  of  early  spring  came — the 
English  spring  and  the  sunshine,  and  there  was 
no  need  any  longer  for  a  fire  on  the  hearth, 
and  every  day  brought  the  ship  nearer,  and 
every  fair  breeze  helped  to  bring  him  into  port 
quicker — John,  coming  back,  sick  and  wounded 
for  life,  from  battle. 

After  all,  she  had  forgotten  that  part  of  it — 
his  part ;  and  his  burden  that  was  heavier  than 
her  own,  and  Trevelyan's  burden,  that  was 
heavier  than  all. 

After  awhile  she  brought  a  pity,  wholly 
womanly  and  half  divine,  out  of  the  ashes  that 
had  seemed  so  dead,  and  on  the  awful  truth  of 
these  men's  lives,  broken  by  the  failure  of  one, 
she  built  the  mercy  that  is  stronger  than  jus- 
tice, and  the  faith  that  is  stronger  than  doubt. 

Something,  though,  remained  in  the  ashes, 
dead,  never  to  be  rekindled,  and  woman-like 
she  used  to  cry  a  little  over  the  dead  part  of  it ; 
not  because  she  could  not  relight  it,  but  because 
it  was  so  dead. 

194 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  grew  into  a  woman  in  those  weeks 
lapsing  between  Trevelyan's  call  and  Stewart's 
return — gradually,  as  clay  is  moulded  in  the 
hands  of  a  potter,  who  cuts  it  on  his  wheel,  to 
give  to  it  the  finer  tracings  and  the  smoothness 
of  completion. 

And  every  day  and  every  fair  breeze  brought 
Stewart  nearer,  and  Gary  turned  from  the  ashes 
to  the  sunsets  again.  Fires  would  go  out,  even 
with  careful  tending,  but  the  sunsets  were 
God's,  Gary  told  herself,  and,  therefore,  eternal. 


195 


IV. 


MALCOLM    Stewart    went    down    to 
Southampton  to  meet  the  ship  and 
bring  John  back  to  London. 

"  No  excitement,"  the  doctor  had  said,  and 
so  he  had  gone  alone. 

Now  that  young  Stewart  had  really  accom- 
plished the  task  of  getting  back  to  England,  his 
false  strength  deserted  him  and  he  became 
weaker  than  before.  The  two  men,  the  sturdy 
father  and  the  wasted  son,  made  the  journey 
to  town,  John  being  carried  to  and  from  the 
railway  carriages. 

For  a  moment,  when  he  reached  London, 
and  the  carriage  was  turning  into  Grosvenor 
Square,  he  rallied  a  little  and  insisted  on  get- 
ting out  of  the  carriage  himself,  and  walking 
up  the  steps,  leaning  heavily  on  his  father's 
arm. 

"  We  won't  frighten  the  Little  Madre,"  he 
had  said. 

196 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  tall,  womanly  figure  of  the  Little  Madre, 
who  had  been  standing  by  the  window  for  the 
last  hour,  appeared  at  the  door,  silently  holding 
out  her  arms. 

After  awhile  they  got  him  up  to  his  own 
room  and  to  bed,  and  all  day  the  Little  Madre 
sat  by  him,  tending  to  his  few  wants.  Once 
he  fell  asleep,  and  when  he  awoke  the  room  was 
full  of  flowers. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  his  mother  feebly, 
"  Where  did  they  come  from  ?  " 

"  From  friends,"  she  said,  rising  and  mov- 
ing from  one  great  bunch  to  another,  "  The 
white  and  pink  roses  are  from  Cousin  Ken- 
neth's wife,"  and  so  she  went  on.  "  The 
heather  and  the  bracken  came  without  a  name. 
I  think  they  must  be  from  Rob — don't  you  ?  " 

She  paused,  turning  to  him  questioningly. 
Stewart  swallowed. 

"  Probably,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  The  Camerons  sent  the  lilies,  and  those 
red  roses  are  from  the  old  Major  of  the  De- 
partment— you  should  read  the  card,"  she 
smiled  proudly,  coming  back  to  his  bed. 

He  smiled  at  her  eagerness,  and  laid  the 
card  down. 

197 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"That's  pretty  nice,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

And  then  he  looked  up  at  her. 

"  But  the  violets?  "  he  asked  slowly.  "  Who 
left  the  violets?" 

"  The  violets  are  from  Gary,"  she  replied, 
meeting  his  look. 

A  slow  flush  mounted  over  his  pale  face. 

"  Please  bring  them  here." 

She  did  so,  holding  them  close  to  his  face 
that  he  might  smell  of  them  before  she  put  the 
little  vase  on  the  table  by  him.  He  took  them 
out  of  the  water,  feebly,  and  laid  them  on  the 
bed. 

"  Everyone  is  awfully  kind,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  don't  deserve  the  fuss.  Have — many  in- 
quired— to-day  ?  " 

"All  my  visiting  list,"  she  replied,  laugh- 
ingly, "  and  a  good  many  more  besides.  Why 
the  officers — "  she  paused,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Has — Gary  called  ?  "  he  asked,  looking 
hard  at  the  foot  board  of  the  bed. 

"  Yes,  and  left  the  flowers  herself.  You 
are  to  see  her — "  she  broke  off,  anxiously 
watching  the  haggard  face  that  he  turned 
quickly  to  her  own. 

"When?" 

198 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  In  three  or  four  days — if  you  are  stronger. 
She  shall  be  the  first." 

His  mother  leaned  over  him,  stroking  his 
hair  from  his  forehead.  He  met  her  eyes 
gravely. 

The  late  sunlight  sifted  through  the  drawn 
curtains  and  touched  the  flowers ;  their  exquisite 
odor  crept  through  the  stillness  of  the  room 
as  the  sweet  memory  of  an  old  song  steals 
through  the  silent  chambers  of  the  heart. 

"  I  love  her,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  have  loved 
her  always,"  he  said,  still  looking  into  her 
eyes. 

She  smiled. 

"  I  have  known  it  always,"  she  answered. 

But  the  four  days  lengthened  into  four  weeks 
before  he  saw  Gary.  That  night  the  half 
healed  wound  reopened,  and  he  had  a  sinking 
spell. 

The  next  morning  before  the  news  had  had 
time  to  become  generally  known,  Trevelyan 
mysteriously  appeared  at  the  house  on  Gros- 
venor  Square,  and  went  straight  to  Stewart's 
room. 

"  You  go  and  lie  down,"  he  said  briefly  to  his 
aunt,  who  had  been  up  all  night,  "  I  guess  I 

199 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ought  to  know  how  to  take  care  of  him.  I 
did  it  once  before  in  India.  I  won't  leave  you 
until  I've  pulled  him  through." 

And  then  Trevelyan  and  Death  fought  it  out 
again,  and  Trevelyan  beat  back  the  Shadowy 
Presence  in  the  great  still  London  house,  as  he 
had  done  weeks  before  in  the  government  hos- 
pital in  India.  He  hardly  left  the  sick  room, 
and  he  seemed  scarcely  ever  to  sleep.  He 
would  sit  for  hours  at  a  time,  his  finger  on 
Stewart's  pulse ;  quieting  his  ravings  and  forc- 
ing back  the  fever  by  the  might  of  his  own  will. 

Except  in  the  dim  sick  room  where  Stewart 
lived  again  in  delirium  the  night  of  the  peril- 
ous ride,  over  the  great  Grosvenor  Square 
house  rested  the  hush  of  grave  sickness  and 
impending  death.  The  servant  stationed  at  the 
door,  guarded  against  the  possible  ringing  of 
the  muffled  bell,  and  answered  inquiries,  and 
received  the  cards  left,  and  the  offerings  of 
flowers.  None  ever  reached  Stewart's  dark- 
ened room  except  the  small  bunch  of  violets 
that  came  daily,  and  which  his  mother  would 
bring  up  and  place  on  the  table  by  his  bed,  hop- 
ing in  woman-fashion  that  the  perfume  might 
attract  and  hold  his  wandering  faculties,  or 

20O 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


arouse  him  from  the  stupor    into    which    he 
would  fall  from  time  to  time ;  but  it  never  did. 

If  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  the  exquisite 
torture  the  flowers  and  their  scent  were  to 
Trevelyan,  she  would  have  placed  them  with 
the  others  down  stairs,  but  Trevelyan  never 
told,  and  she  never  knew  the  moments  in  which 
the  perfume  seemed  to  drive  him  mad. 

Once  she  suggested  getting  a  professional 
nurse  to  relieve  him,  but  catching  sight  of 
Trevelyan's  face  she  had  stopped  short. 

"  There !  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
not  that  I  don't  trust  you,  or  am  ungrateful  or 
believe  that  anyone  else  could  do  so  well,  but  I 
am  afraid  for  you." 

"  I'm  all  right,"  Trevelyan  had  answered 
shortly. 

"  You  are  unselfish ;  you  are  only  thinking 
of  us  and  of  John.  You  are  always  thinking 
and  dojng  for  John." 

"  Don't !  "  he  interrupted,  and  through  the 
dimness  of  the  room  she  could  see  that  his  face 
quivered,  and  she  wondered. 

"  I  could  not  get  along  without  you,"  she 
went  on.  "  None  of  us  could,  and  it  has  been 
you  who  have  pulled  him  through  so  far." 

201 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  looked  toward  the  long,  motionless 
figure  on  the  bed. 

"  I  shall  pull  him  through  to-night  and  to- 
morrow, and  to-morrow  again,  and  next  week 
— until  he  is  out  of  danger,"  said  Trevleyan. 

That  was  the  day  the  two  doctors  had  given 
Stewart  up. 

The  crisis  came  and  passed,  and  Stewart 
lived. 

When  the  thralldom  and  the  stupor  of  the 
fever  had  partly  lifted,  and  before  Stewart 
came  to  himself,  Trevelyan  left  and  went  back 
to  Scotland  and  to  old  Mactier,  nor  could  any- 
one persuade  him  to  remain. 

Days  later,  when  Stewart  was  sitting  up, 
he  saw  Gary  for  the  first  time. 

"  There  is  some  one  waiting  outside  whom 
you  will  be  glad  to  see,"  his  mother  had  said. 

"It  is  Gary ?  You  are  going  to  let  me  see 
Gary?  "  he  cried. 

"  If  you  will  be  good  and  not  talk,"  she 
answered,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

Stewart  turned  his  face  to  the  door,  pressing 
his  long,  thin  fingers  resting  on  his  knee,  close 
together. 

She  came  in  carrying  a  bunch  of  violets,  and 

202 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


stood  by  his  chair,  looking  down  at  him.  He 
looked  up  at  her,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  beautiful,  and  her  voice  the  sweetest  he  had 
ever  heard. 

"  I  have  waited  and  wanted  so  to  give  you 
these  myself,"  she  said,  "  and  you  have  fright- 
ened us  all  so." 

She  spoke  with  the  simplicity  of  a  little  girl, 
but  there  was  a  quality  in  her  voice  that  Stew- 
art had  not  heard  before,  and  he  knew  that 
Gary  had  become  a  woman. 

He  clung  to  her  hand  in  parting  with  that 
pathetic  bodily  weakness  that  makes  a  man,  in 
illness,  like  a  child. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  he  pleaded,  "  You've  been 
here  such  a  little  while.  Oh,  please  don't  go !  " 

She  patted  his  hand. 

"  I  will  come  again,"  she  said,  and  on  her 
way  to  the  door,  she  kept  looking  back  at  him 
and  smiling.  He  sat  motionless  until  her  light 
footstep  was  lost  in  the  distance,  and  all  day 
he  sat  quiet,  scarcely  speaking,  dreaming  of 
her. 

The  next  day  he  waited,  expecting  her,  but 
she  did  not  come ;  nor  the  next. 

"  What's  become  of  Gary?  "  he  asked  on  the 

203 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


third  day  of  his  mother.  "  Why  don't  she  come 
any  more  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  thinks  you're  out  of  danger 
now,  and  she  may  have  other  things  to  do." 

"  If  that  isn't  just  the  way  of  women !  Com- 
ing all  the  time  when  a  chap  don't  know  any- 
thing or  anybody,  and  then  just  when  he  needs 
cheering — "  he  broke  off,  pulling  viciously  at 
the  shawl  over  his  feet. 

His  mother  smiled,  knowing  better  "  the 
way  of  women." 

But  two  days  later,  when  Gary  called  again, 
she  spoke  to  her  of  his  loneliness. 

"  He  gets  tired  of  the  home  faces,"  she  said, 
"  and  he  isn't  strong  enough  yet  to  see  the  men 
or  strangers.  Perhaps  if  you  could  read  aloud 
to  him  now  and  then " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  could,"  said  Gary,  and 
after  that  she  came  oftener.  They  would  carry 
Stewart  down  to  his  mother's  cheerful  little 
sitting  room,  and  there  one  or  more  of  the 
family  would  gather  and  Gary  would  talk  or 
read  aloud.  At  such  times  Stewart  would  lean 
back  in  his  chair  among  his  pillows  and  remain 
silent,  content  to  look  at  her  and  to  listen  to  her 
voice.  One  day  they  were  left  alone  together. 

204 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  remained  quiet,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  Pres- 
ently she  finished  the  chapter  and  turned  the 
page. 

"  I  think  that  was  a  pretty  strong  scene, 
don't  you  ?  "  she  asked,  pausing  for  a  moment 
before  she  went  on,  and  peering  at  him  gravely 
over  the  top  of  the  book. 

"  Yes — it  was,"  he  answered  absently. 

"  You  weren't  listening  to  a  word  of  it,"  she 
exclaimed  reproachfully. 

He  laughed. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth — no.  Put  the 
wretched  old  thing  down  and  talk  to  me." 

She  laid  the  book  down  as  he  had  bidden, 
but  she  played  nervously  with  the  leaves. 

"What  shall  I  talk  about?" 

"  Oh,  anything — yourself." 

"  Upon  my  word,  but  you're  polite.  There 
isn't  an  earthly  thing  to  tell  about  myself," 
she  added,  "And  I  don't  know  any  topic  that 
would  interest  you.  There's  that  House  of 
Commons  speech,  of  course,  but " 

"  Then  I'll  talk  to  you." 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't!  "  She  looked  up  startled, 
"  Sir  Archibald  said  you  were  not  to  exert 
yourself." 

205 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Confound  the  old  codger,  anyway !  Does 
he  expect  to  keep  me  tongue-tied  the  rest  of 
my  life?" 

Gary  laughed. 

"  You're  cross  to-day,"  she  said.  "  You're 
getting  better.  It's  a  sure  sign." 

Stewart  leaned  forward  suddenly;  then  he 
leaned  back  and  traced  an  outline  of  a  sword 
on  the  leather  arm  of  the  chair. 

"  Did  you  know,"  he  asked  her  slowly, 
"  that  as  far  as  the  Service  is  concerned,  I'm 
done  for — that  I'll  never  be  well  enough  for  it 
again;  that  I've  been  injured  beyond  hope  for 
the  Service ;  that  I've  had  to  resign  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gary  gently,  looking  hard  at 
the  book  in  her  lap. 

"  Thirty  and — done  for,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"All  the  Woolwich  years  to  count  for  noth- 
ing; all  the  study;  all  the  ambition,  all  the — 
hope,  to  count  for  nothing ! "  His  finger 
paused  in  tracing  the  outline  of  the  sword. 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that,"  cried  Gary, 
"  you  must  remember  what  you've  done  al- 
ready— more  than  many  older  officers  do  in 
their  whole  lives.  And  then — " 

He  interrupted  her. 

206 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  That  sounds  well,"  he  said.  "  But  life  isn't 
worth  much  to  a  man  when  he's  laid  on  the 
shelf  just  when  he's  beginning  to  live —  But 
the  wasted  years  and  the  inactive  life  ahead ! " 
He  went  on  rapidly,  beating  the  fist  of  one  hand 
against  the  palm  of  the  other.  "  Oh,  think 
what  inactivity  will  mean  after  the  life  I've 
been  trained  to,  and  worked  for,  and  loved ! " 

She  sat  silent,  her  heart  throbbing  with  a 
great  pity. 

"  To  have  to  think  of  myself — to  look  out 
for  draughts  like  a  sickly,  nervous  old  man ! " 
Something  rose  in  Stewart's  throat,  and  he 
coughed.  "  Can't  ever  command  the  men 
again !  Can't  lead  them  to  battle,  or  ever  feel 
the  soft  earth  under  me,  or  see  the  stars  and 
the  night  through  the  flap  of  my  tent!  To 
have  to  give  up  trying  to  be  something,  or  do 
something — at  thirty !  " 

He  stopped  short. 

The  book  fell  from  Gary's  lap  to  the  floor, 
and  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up  with  swimming' 
eyes.  He  caught  sight  of  her  face  and  he 
leaned  forward;  all  the  anger  and  all  the 
resentment  gone  from  his  voice — melted  by 
her  tears. 

207 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"Bah!"  he  said,  "That's  just  about  the 
fate  I'm  fit  for  if  I  haven't  got  any  more  grit 
than  that !  Of  course  I  didn't  mean  it,  and  you 
must  try  and  forget  it.  Of  course  the  Service 
is  out  of  the  question,  but  I  will  make  some- 
thing of  my  life!  And  I'm  awfully  glad,  too, 
for  what  I've  had  of  it,  and — been  allowed 
to  do.  I'm  glad  for  the  Woolwich  years  and — 
and  the  training — and — all  that!  Of  course  it 
hasn't  been  lost.  And  I'm  glad  I've  done 
something  for  the  Service — even  in  a  little  way, 
and  saved — "  he  caught  himself  up  suddenly. 

Gary  rose,  her  tears  dried  by  the  burning 
fever  in  her  eyes.  She  finished  the  sentence. 

"  Saved  Robert  from  exposure !  " 

He  looked  up  quickly. 

"  I — I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do  too,"  said  Gary,  breath- 
ing hard.  "  You  think  I  don't  know  all  about 
it!  I  do,  though!" 

"How?" 

"  Robert  told  me  himself." 

Stewart  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked 
away.  There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room. 
After  awhile  she  went  up  to  the  big  leather 

208 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


chair  and  laid  one  hand  on  the  back  of  it  and 
bent  her  head,  looking  down  at  him. 

"Johnny?" 

He  looked  up,  his  firm  mouth  working. 

"Johnny,  you're  the  best  man  that  ever 
lived!" 

"  Oh,  Gary !  "  he  said,  and  he  tried  to  laugh. 

She  nodded  decidedly. 

"  But  I  know.  Robert  told  me  what  you'd 
been  to  him,  and — he  didn't  spare  himself." 

Stewart  stared  straight  ahead  of  him. 

"  Poor  Rob,"  he  said.     "  Poor  boy !  " 

Gary  moved  off  to  the  window  and  looked 
out,  absent-mindedly,  folding  the  edge  of  the 
curtain  with  her  fingers. 

"  It's  all  like  a  terrible  dream,"  she  said 
slowly,  "  and  I  keep  thinking  I'll  awake.  It 
doesn't  seem  possible.  I  keep  remembering  the 
time  he  saved  us  in  that  awful  storm,  years  ago 
at  home,  and — it — doesn't — seem — possible !  " 

"  No,  but  it's  all  too  true,"  said  Stewart. 

Gary  wheeled  around,  facing  the  room. 

"And  I  am  responsible.  It  was  through  his 
love  for  me ! "  she  cried. 

Stewart  shook  his  head. 

209 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  You  tried  to  help  him.  I  tried  to  help 
him — all  the  fellows  did,  but  he  just  let  him- 
self go.  When  a  man  like  that  wants  some- 
thing, he  sweeps  everything  out  of  his  way  and 
rushes  on  blindly." 

"Oh,  but  it  was  the  love  for  me!"  said 
Gary ;  then  suddenly :  "  How  you  shielded 
him!" 

"  Do  you  think  I  did  right  ?  After  all,  per- 
haps, I  wasn't  meant  for  the  Service.  If  I 
had  done  all  my  duty — " 

"  I  think  you  did  right,"  said  Gary,  looking 
down  with  grave  eyes  at  her  locked  fingers,  and 
she  came  back  into  the  room  and  sat  down, 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  think  so?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  No  exposure  could  remedy  the  hurt  he  gave 
himself — to  his  own  manhood  and  his  own 
honor — "  she  broke  off,  and  then  went  on  hur- 
riedly. "  Oh,  if  he  could  only  have  realized 
what  that  meant — keeping  his  honor  clean — " 
she  broke  off  again,  and  Stewart  looked  away 
so  that  he  might  not  see  her  face.  She  went 
on. 

"  The  survey  was  made  all  right  and  so  it 
was  not  the  hurt  to  the  Service  it  might  have 

210 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


been,  but  only  to  himself ;  and  your  punishment 
in  forcing  him  to  resign  was  severe  enough) 
His  own  remorse  makes  up  the  rest,  and  the 
two  may  bring  him  another  chance."  She 
paused. 

Stewart  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  his 
elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  looked 
fixedly  off  into  space. 

"  Perhaps  you're  right — I  guess  you  are," 
he  said,  slowly.  "  I  thought  something  like  that 
at  the  time.  It  may  be  the  saving  of  him.  I 
didn't  do  an  officer's  whole  duty,  but  I  tried  to 
be  just.  I  tried  to  spare  him  and — and — "  he 
hesitated,  "  those  at  home.  I  suppose  another 
man  might  have  told.  I  just  held  my  tongue. 
It  was  an  accident — my  seeing.  I  was  worried 
over  the  boy  and  couldn't  keep  away — "  he 
was  speaking  disjointedly.  "  I  loved  the  Serv- 
ice. God!  how  I  loved  it,  and  I  couldn't  bear 
that  he  might  really  harm  it  some  time,  so  I 
made  him  get  out.  But  I  couldn't  disgrace 
him;  have  him  court-marshaled  and  cashiered, 
or — or  pay  the  penalty — "  he  broke  off,  and 
Gary  rose  to  go. 

"  He  is  paying  the  penalty,"  she  said.  "  He 
pays  it  with  every  breath  he  draws." 

21  I 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Yes ;  and  they  tell  me  that  twice  he  has 
nursed  me  and  saved  me,  and  I  never  knew ! " 

Gary  looked  down  thoughtfully  at  Stewart's 
thin  hand  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and 
Stewart  looked  at  her  and  the  silence  grew 
and  grew.  If  only  he  knew  whether 

She  looked  up  quickly,  as  though  divining 
his  thoughts,  and  she  flushed  a  little. 

"  We  will  keep  the  secret,"  she  said,  "  you 
and  I — won't  we?  And  we  will  try  and  help 
him?  Do  you  know,  I  believe  he'll  take  his 
ambition  and  courage  and — love,"  the  flush 
mounted  higher,  "  and  remould  his  life  ?  "  She 
hesitated,  "  Even  hopeless  love — "  and  then 
she  broke  off,  turning  her  face  away.  Stewart 
did  not  speak  or  move. 

"Then  it  isn't  Robert,"  he  said  to  himself 
after  she  had  gone,  "  Then — it — isn't — 
Robert!" 


212 


V. 


WEEKS  later,  when  Stewart  was  able, 
he  went  around  to  see  Gary. 

"  It's  a  dreadful  pull — up  those 
stairs,"  said  Gary,  rolling  forward  a  chair  and 
looking  anxiously  at  Stewart  as  he  stood  wan 
and  breathless,  but  smiling,  in  the  doorway. 

"  It  never  used  to  be,"  he  panted,  sitting 
down. 

His  eyes  wandered  about  the  room. 

"  Jove,  but  it's  good  to  get  back  here !  And 
you  haven't  changed  things  a  bit — even  the 
Psyche  in  her  old  place !  And  the  little  tea 
kettle — Jove !  " 

He  leaned  back  restfully. 

She  laughed  and  watched  him  in  silence. 

"  I'll  miss  it  all  like  the  dickens !  " 

She  looked  up  quickly  from  the  flowers  she 
was  just  beginning  to  arrange. 

"You  are  not  going  away,  are  you?"  she 
asked. 

He  nodded  and  sighed. 

213 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Home  —  to  Scotland.  The  lease  on  the 
place  has  run  out,  and  they  think  country  air 
will  brace  me  up  a  bit  —  so  we're  going.  It'll 
seem  queer  to  get  back  there  after  all  these 
years." 

"  You  —  you're  going  to  give  up  the  Gros- 
venor  Square  house  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  suppose,  though,  we'll  come  back 
every  year  for  the  season  and  take  a  suite  at 
the  Langham  or  the  Buckingham  Gate.  Father 
has  an  idea  that  he'll  put  me  through  a  course 
of  politics  up  there,  when  we're  alone,  and 
there's  nothing  going  on."  Stewart  smiled 
mirthlessly. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  going  into  politics, 
when  you  get  strong?  "  asked  Gary  for  some- 
thing to  say.  A  sudden  unutterable  home- 
sickness had  swept  over  her. 

"  I'm  not  sure  —  it  isn't  unlikely  though.  I 
suppose  that's  as  good  a  way  to  serve  the 
country  as  half  a  man  can  —  perhaps  a  little 
better  —  to  try  and  help  keep  one  detail  of  the 
government's  work  clean!  Father  has  set  his 
heart  on  the  Diplomatic  service  for  me." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  like  that,"  said  Gary. 
Talking  to-day  for  some  reason  was  an  effort. 

214 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I'm  not  sure.  What  are  you  and  the  Cap- 
tain going  to  do  with  yourselves  ?  " 

Gary  leaned  against  the  back  of  a  chair,  tear- 
ing a  stray  rose  leaf  to  pieces.  She  looked 
down  at  it  as  she  spoke. 

"  Papa  wants  another  tramp  through  the 
Alps.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  tramping,  but 
he's  been  so  good  I  can't  say  a  word.  When 
we've  climbed  Mont  Blanc  again  and  come 
down,  I  think  I'll  get  Daddy  to  take  me  home. 
I  think  I'm  a  little  mite  homesick." 

She  turned  quickly  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
roses.  An  odd  light  sprang  to  Stewart's  eyes. 

"  Haven't  you  been  happy  in  England?  "  he 
asked. 

Gary  lifted  her  head,  her  face  dyed  with  the 
deep  red  of  the  roses. 

"  Happy !  There's  no  place  like  England — 
except  America,"  she  said.  "  I  love  every  stone 
in  England — in  the  United  Kingdom !  Months 
ago  Daddy  and  I  spent  a  July  in  Hertfordshire. 
I  can  see  it  all  now ;  the  glorious  green  of  every- 
thing; the  undulating  country  and  the  woods 
and  the  scattered  old  cottages,  with  the  vil- 
lage in  the  distance  and  the  church  spire  show- 
ing, and  the  little  river  and  the  cornfields  and 

215 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  poppies !  "  She  breathed  quicker.  "  There 
is  only  one  thing  sweeter  I  know — the  old  fort 
at  home  and  the  long  beach  and  the  sea." 

She  stopped,  and  the  red  of  the  roses  faded. 
She  went  on  slowly. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I'm  a  little  bit  homesick,  for 
the  beach  and  the  sea." 

"  Do  you  remember  when  we  were  crossing 
I  asked  you  to  let  me  take  you  to  my  home  in 
Scotland  when  the  homesickness  came?" 
asked  Stewart,  "  You  might  come  to  us  when 
the  Captain  is  re-climbing  Mont  Blanc." 

He  paused,  waiting  for  an  answer,  but  Gary 
was  silent. 

"Wouldn't  you  come?" 

She  threw  the  last  bit  of  the  torn  leaf  away 
and  came  toward  him  and  stopped,  her  hands 
on  the  back  of  a  chair,  a  smile  creeping  into  her 
eyes. 

"  I  might — if  I  was  asked,"  she  said  de- 
murely. 

He  laughed  like  a  boy. 

"  Mother'll  see  to  that." 

"  She'll  have  to,"  said  Gary,  tossing  her 
head. 

"But  you'd  still  be  homesick?" 

216 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  wrinkled  up  her  forehead. 

"  Goodness,  even  Scotland  isn't  America," 
she  answered.  "  Why,  I  suppose  I  would — 
some ! " 

Stewart  closed  the  carriage  door  decidedly. 
Then  he  leaned  back  and  stared  into  the  mirror 
opposite,  addressing  the  reflection  there.  The 
odd  light  had  come  back  to  his  eyes. 

"  It's  what  I've  been  waiting  for,"  he  said, 
speaking  aloud  and  slowly ;  "  it's  what  I've 
been  waiting  for  all  these  years.  She's  home- 
sick, and  she  shall  come  home — to  me." 


217 


VI. 


TO  Trevelyan,  up  in  Scotland,  each  day 
evolved  itself  into  an  eternity.  There 
were  the  lonely  breakfasts  in  the 
mornings;  the  lonely  walks  about  the  grounds, 
or  out  on  the  steep,  bare  crags;  the  lonely 
lunches ;  the  lonely  afternoons  spent  in  wander- 
ing around  the  silent  house;  the  lonelier  eve- 
nings in  which  the  unread  book  would  drop 
from  his  hand  to  the  floor,  and  he  would  stare 
absently  into  the  shadows;  the  lonely  wakeful 
nights — it  was  always  loneliness. 

Old  Mactier  would  often  pause  in  his  morn- 
ing work  and  look  after  the  solitary  figure  and 
ponder  and  shake  his  head  before  he  went  back 
to  his  duties.  Trevelyan  sometimes  used  to 
stop  by  him  and  talk  to  him  a  little  before  he 
resumed  his  walk.  Once  he  carried  Mactier 
off  to  the  moorlands  for  a  week's  shooting,  and 
Mactier  was  actually  conscious  that  Trevelyan 
seemed  happier  with  his  gun  under  his  arm 

218 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


again  than  he  had  been  since  the  day  of  his 
mysterious  return. 

It  was  Trevelyan,  not  Mactier,  who  led  the 
hunt  in  those  days,  and  the  old  man  would 
press  after  him,  sometimes  stumbling  with  the 
fatigue  he  was  too  proud  to  acknowledge,  and 
glorying  in  the  prowess  of  the  great  strong 
figure  ahead,  that  he  had  carried  as  a  child  and 
in  whose  hands  he  had  placed  the  first  fire- 
arms— almost  before  the  child  was  strong 
enough  to  hold  the  weapon  or  could  pull  the 
trigger  by  himself. 

If  Trevelyan  exhausted  the  old  retainer,  he 
tired  himself  too,  and  at  night  he  would  drop, 
almost  too  weary  to  take  off  his  hunting  boots, 
and  go  to  sleep,  and  sleep  heavily,  dreamlessly, 
as  he  had  not  done  for  weeks. 

It  was  a  relief,  that,  to  get  away  from  the 
haunting  shadow  in  his  dreams ;  and  he  blessed 
passionately  the  fatigue  that  brought  even  for 
so  brief  a  time,  forgetfulness. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  and  Mactier  went 
home,  and  the  inactivity  and  the  loneliness  and 
the  sleeplessness  grew  greater  than  before. 

There  was  no  face  of  his  own  kind  to  greet 
him  here,  in  Scotland;  the  Camerons  were  his 

219 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


nearest  neighbors,  and  the  Camerons  were 
away — Tom  in  Aberdeen.  There  was  no  one 
to  help  him,  even  if  they  could,  to  beat  back  the 
blind  despair  that  threatened  him  with  mental 
and  with  moral  death. 

One  day  he  ordered  out  the  hounds  and  rode 
across  country  until  the  fields  and  trees  and 
fences  became  blurred  together  by  the  touch  of 
twilight.  He  returned  mud  stained  and  mor- 
tally weary  and  stalked  into  the  dining  room 
and  over  to  the  sideboard,  where  he  locked  his 
table  wines.  He  took  out  a  decanter  and 
hunted  around  for  a  glass,  and  carried  both 
into  the  library,  and  sat  down.  Then  he 
poured  some  of  the  wine  and  swallowed  it  at  a 
mouthful.  He  filled  the  glass  again  and  drank 
the  liquor  leisurely,  lounging  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  content.  After  all,  he  declared, 
there  was  nothing  like  a  bracer  when  a  chap 
was  fagged  out. 

By  and  by,  he  slipped  down  a  little  in  his 
chair  and  stretched  his  legs,  still  encased  in 
their  mud-stained  boots,  straight  out  in  front 
of  him  and  went  to  sleep.  When  he  awoke  it 
was  quite  dark,  and  he  sat  still,  staring  through 
the  uncurtained  window  into  the  night,  and 

220 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


conscious  of  a  delicious  languor.  Then  as  his 
faculties  became  more  acute  and  the  old  spectre 
returned  to  haunt  him,  he  instinctively  stretched 
forth  his  hand  in  the  blackness  and  fumbled  for 
the  decanter  and  the  glass.  He  drunk  deeply 
once,  twice,  three  times — and  when  he  raised 
the  glass  for  the  fourth  time  his  hand  shook 
and  there  was  an  odd  rushing  sound  in  his 
head. 

Suddenly  he  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  pushed 
the  glass  and  decanter  from  him  roughly  and 
flung  out  his  arms  across  the  table.  The  odd 
rushing  sound  subsided,  and  he  became  aware 
that  the  wine  was  dripping  from  the  table  to 
the  floor,  where  he  had  overturned  the  de- 
canter. 

He  did  not  refill  it,  and  the  sideboard  re- 
mained unlocked — and  empty. 

So  the  days  passed.  He  would  climb  up  into 
the  eyrie,  as  he  had  done  as  a  child  and  listen 
to  the  beating  sea  below.  Once  the  sea  had 
sung  to  him  of  undiscovered  lands,  whose 
shores  it  touched,  bearing  the  message  back  to 
him ;  it  had  sung  of  wealth  and  fame  gained  by 
the  sword — it  was  by  the  sword  always — and 
it  had  beaten  and  beaten,  and  sung  of  all  that 

221 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


he  would  one  day  like  to  be ;  and  of  what  some 
day  he  would  be  and  achieve.  Once  it  had 
sung  of  love — of  its  mystery  and  the  essence  of 
its  life — 

Now — 

He  would  crawl  to  the  edge  of  the  crag  and 
peer  over  into  the  white  foam,  holding  on  to  the 
edge  until  the  old  boyish  dizziness  came  back; 
but  unlike  in  the  old  days,  there  was  never  a 
woman's  face  in  the  foam  now.  What  right 
had  he  to  look  for  a  woman's  face  in  the  foam ! 

And  the  song  of  the  sea  was  the  song  of 
death  and  dishonor.  He  might  climb  the  crag 
to-day,  and  to-morrow,  and  every  to-morrow  of 
his  life,  and  the  song  would  not  change.  The 
sea  was  a  vast  organ;  he  could  not  change  its 
tunes  back  to  the  old  ones ;  he  could  not  control 
it,  and  it  went  on,  rolling  out  its  fierce,  deep 
music  of  dishonor. 

And  then  he  would  leave  the  sea  and  the 
crags  and  go  back  into  the  empty  house.  The 
house  was  only  a  shade  less  bad;  with  its  de-' 
serted  rooms  and  its  long  gallery  of  dead  and 
gone  Campbells  and  Trevelyans. 

He  had  wandered  into  the  gallery  once  or 
twice.  The  faces  on  the  canvases,  grown  indis- 

222 


"  What  right  bad  he  to  look  for  a  woman  s 
face  in  the  foam  ?  " 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


tinct  with  the  years,  seemed  to  look  back  at  him 
without  recognition  that  he  was  of  their  race 
and  line.  What  claim  had  they  on  him  or  he 
on  them?  The  men  had  been  brave  and  the 
women  fair — so  the  history  and  traditions  of 
the  house  had  said,  even  if  the  stiff  painted  fig- 
ures and  the  severe  painted  faces  often  said 
otherwise — the  men  had  always  been  in  the 
front  wherever  they  were  needed  for  the  de- 
fense of  Scotland  and  her  rights,  and  later  they 
had  defended  England  too.  If  they  had  not 
fought  for  her  with  the  sword,  they  had  with 
tongue  or  pen — if  they  had  not  been  soldiers, 
they  had  been  powers  in  the  government  or  in 
the  pulpit.  Even  the  solemn-faced  preacher 
near  the  big  window  at  the  furthest  end  of  the 
gallery,  when  eloquence  had  failed,  had  left  the 
old  kirk  to  strike  a  blow  for  King  Charlie. 
The  women,  too,  had  been  brave — brave  in  the 
sacrifice  of  beauty  and  wealth  for  the  uphold- 
ing of  Scottish  rights,  and  the  renouncing  of 
husbands  and  lovers  and  sons  for  Scotland. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  gallery  hung  his 
father's  race — the  Trevelyans;  and  opposite 
the  solemn-faced  preacher,  near  to  the  window 
where  the  sun  struck  it  in  the  morning,  was  the 

223 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


picture  of  his  mother.  It  had  been  taken  of 
her  in  the  first  years  of  her  marriage,  soon 
after  he  had  been  born.  People  had  said  that, 
as  a  child,  he  had  held  his  head  proudly,  like 
hers. 

The  grave,  smiling  eyes  seemed  to  follow 
him  as  he  turned  hastily  from  the  portrait. 
She  had  gloried  in  the  traditions  of  her  race; 
she  had  been  proud — justly — of  her  line.  He 
thanked  God  she  was  dead — that  he  might  re- 
member her  as  the  portrait  had  painted  her  to 
be — on  the  flood  tide  of  her  love  and  her 
beauty  and  her  strength. 

There  was  the  picture  of  his  father,  in  his 
full  regimentals.  He  had  been  years  older 
than  his  wife,  but  how  they  had  loved  each 
other ;  how  proud  they  had  been  of  each  other's 
race,  and  how  proud  they  had  been  of  him. 
He  was  glad  that  his  father  was  traveling  in 
the  Far  East  and  had  not  seen  him  or  de- 
manded explanations  since  his  return.  He 
would  have  been  obliged  to  meet  the  question- 
ings with  silence.  It  was  better  so. 

Between  the  two  portraits  hung  one  of  him- 
self as  a  child.  How  his  father  and  mother 
had  watched  the  growing  of  the  portrait  under 

224 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  master's  brush,  waiting  for  its  completion, 
that  it  might  be  hung  in  the  gallery.  It  had 
been  painted  the  year  his  mother  had  died — 
a  year  before  he  went  to  America.  The  artist 
had  taken  something  of  the  grace  and  alertness 
of  the  great  hound  that  had  rested  at  the  boy's 
feet  and  put  it  into  the  supple  limbs  of  the  boy 
himself.  He  had  painted  into  the  boy's  eyes 
the  reflection  of  the  gray  stormy  sea,  and  had 
lent  them  something  of  the  gray  sea's  strength. 

And  he  had  been  like  that  as  a  child,  with  all 
the  promise  of  a  ripe  manhood!  And  now 
that  he  had  grown  to  be  a  man 

There  was  a  long  stretch  of  empty  wall 
space  next  to  the  portrait  of  his  father,  and  his 
father  had  once  laughingly  told  him  that  his 
portrait  should  hang  there,  painted  in  uniform, 
when  he  had  left  Woolwich  and  won  his  spurs 
and  returned  after  seeing  service. 

And  he  had  returned  from  service  without 
the  uniform ! 

He  had  used  to  come  and  dream  here  after 
the  Woolwich  years,  whenever  he  could  get  off 
from  duty  or  was  not  with  Gary.  He  had 
come  here  often  in  that  winter  when  Gary  was 
away  in  France.  And  he  had  planned  his  por- 

225 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


trait  hanging  so,  in  uniform,  with  hers  near  his 
— even  as  his  mother's  was  near  his  father's. 
And  sometimes  when  the  sun  had  gone  and  the 
darkness  had  crept  in,  the  shadows  had  taken 
other  forms — the  forms  of  children — who 
would  troop  up  and  take  their  places  on  the 
empty  spaces  waiting  for  them  on  the  wall. 

He  had  dreamed  of  her — of  Gary — as  a 
strong  passionate  nature  dreams  of  its  best  be- 
loved. He  had  fancied  her  in  a  hundred  differ- 
ent guises — at  the  head  of  his  table,  moving 
around  the  house,  as  its  mistress,  talking  to 
old  Mactier  and  his  tenantry,  as  the  master's 
wife;  he  had  dreamed  of  her,  after  he  and  she 
had  lived  together  alone  for  a  period  of  in- 
effable bliss,  as  the  mother  of  his  children; 
strong  sons  and  fair  daughters,  that  would  re- 
flect her  sweetness  and  his  strength — the  com- 
pletion of  their  love.  He  had  dreamed  of  the 
time  when  the  house  would  ring  with  their 
voices,  and  then  of  the  days  when  the  house 
had  lapsed  into  silence  again,  when  learning 
love's  mystery  they  had  gone  to  homes  of 
their  own;  when  he  and  she  would  live  on  in 
a  love  that  time  could  not  change,  nor  age 
wither;  how  later  she  would  lay  him  in  the 

226 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


tomb  of  his  ancestors,  and  later  still  they  would 
put  her  close  beside  him  and  his  people.  He 
had  never  dreamed  of  her  dying  first,  or  of 
his  life  without  her. 

And  now,  she  had  gone  from  his  life,  and 
the  dreams  had  gone ;  and  he  had  shattered  the 
hopes  with  his  own  hand.  He  would  never 
feel  her  in  his  arms,  or  lean  down  and  rest  the 
hollow  of  his  cheek  against  her  hair ;  he  would 
never  see  her  moving  around  the  house,  or 
watch  her  shadow  as  she  passed.  She  would 
never  rest  beside  him  in  the  vault. 

The  house  would  remain  silent  in  the  years 
that  stretched  ahead,  as  it  had  remained  silent 
in  the  years  that  lay  behind.  There  would 
never  be  again  even  the  dream  echoes  of  the 
children's  voices.  His  portrait — in  uniform — 
would  never  hang  upon  the  wall;  the  space 
where  he  had  dreamed  her  pictured  face  would 
look  down  into  his  living  one,  would  be  left 
empty;  and  the  shadows  would  never  take  the 
forms  of  little  children,  and  only  the  grim 
shadow-curtain  of  darkness  would  stretch 
across  the  barren  wall. 

And  he  would  leave  the  gallery  and  go  into 
the  desolate  library,  where  he  and  she  had  stood 

227 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


that  day  of  the  storm,  and  he  would  sit  down 
and  bow  his  face  on  the  big,  carved  table, 
wondering  what  was  the  answer  to  the  twisted 
riddle  of  his  life. 

He  had  told  himself  he  would  pick  up  the 
broken  pieces  and  remould  them  for  England 
and  the  Service,  and  he  had  thought  to  learn 
the  answer  here — at  home,  in  Scotland,  by  the 
crags  and  sea. 

But  Scotland  had  not  answered  him. 


228 


VII. 

TREVELYAN  let  the  hand  that  held 
Mackenzie's  letter  fall  between  his 
sprawling  legs. 

He  had  been  sitting  on  the  front  steps  of  the 
house  when  Mactier  had  brought  him  his  mail 
and  he  had  opened  it  there. 

There  were  the  papers,  and  a  half  dozen  bills, 
a  wedding  invitation,  two  sets  of  reception 
cards,  the  announcement  of  a  club  meeting,  and 
a  letter  tfrom  his  aunt  in  eastern  Scotland,  beg- 
ging him  to  come  to  them,  if  only  for  a  week, 
and  telling  him  that  Gary  was  with  them,  and 
— Mackenzie's  letter. 

He  had  laid  it  aside  to  open  last.  It  might 
have  been  he  wanted  to  take  his  time  reading  it ; 
or  a  dread  of  hearing  from  any  of  the  old  mess. 
At  any  rate,  he  hesitated  before  opening  it,  even 
when  he  had  disposed  of  the  rest  of  the  mail. 

He  read  it  after  awhile,  and  then  he  raised 
his  head  and  looked  hard  at  the  group  of  trees 
near  the  house. 

229 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


And  so  Mackenzie  had  been  transferred  to  a 
distant  regiment  soon  after  he,  Trevelyan,  had 
resigned.  There  were  a  good  many  pages 
given  to  the  description  of  the  new  Station  and 
the  new  set  of  officers  and  men,  that  Trevelyan 
skipped  over  hastily.  It  was  only  the  last  part 
that  had  struck  him  suddenly,  like  a  heavy  blow 
in  the  face,  and  that  made  him,  after  awhile, 
pick  up  the  letter  and  re-read  the  part. 

"  We  had  a  cholera  scare  this  season,  but  we 
managed  to  strangle  it,  so  that  it  never  became 
more  than  local,  but  it  kept  Clarke — he's  my 
assistant,  and  a  good  chap  he  is — and  me,  on 
the  jump  for  a  time.  The  natives  won't  look 
out  for  the  water,  and  I  don't  believe  the  entire 
medical  and  military  force  of  the  United  King- 
dom combined  would  be  able  to  make  them  do 
so!  And  of  course  it's  damnation  in  this  spe- 
cial spot  where  there  is  more  or  less  cholera 
every  year.  I  sometimes  feel  inclined  to  say  if 
they're  such  fools  let  them  drink  and  bathe  and 
drown  themselves  in  the  water,  for  they're  not 
worth  saving.  But  you  see,  unless  the  scourge 
is  stamped  out  among  them  it  goes  on  spread- 
ing and  threatens  the  barracks.  We  can't 
spare  one  of  our  dandy  men.  We  need  'em  all 

230 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


in  the  Service — every  last  mother's  son  of  'em, 
bless  their  stout  old  British  hearts ! 

"  You  saw  a  case  or  two  at  the  old  Station, 
and  you  know  something  of  what  it  means. 
But  you  haven't  any  idea  of  an  army  surgeon's 
dread  of  an  epidemic — that  is  a  surgeon  who 
has  been  through  the  cholera  mill.  I  know,  for 
I've  spent  most  of  my  term  in  India,  and  years 
ago  I  was  in  the  midst  of  a  howling  time  of  it 
— men  dropping  off  by  the  score!  I  never 
want  to  go  through  such  a  thing  again.  The 
horror  of  it  is  enough  to  last  a  man  a  good 
deal  longer  than  his  natural  life — and  the  chaps 
who  helped  me!  Well,  most  of  the  men  who 
could — and  they  were  brave  men,  too — took  to 
heels,  and  the  handful  that  buckled  to,  to  nurse, 
kept  getting  sick  from  fatigue  and  the  vile 
water — and  then  when  the  men  died — the 
fires — 

"  There,  you  know  it,  I  suppose,  or  you've 
heard  of  it  before.  No  one  knows  it,  until 
one's  been  through  it. 

"  The  natives  were  pretty  good  on  the  whole 
a  few  months  ago  and  so  we  stamped  it  out 
then.  Jove !  some  of  them  were  sick,  though — 
sicker  than  the  sickest  dog  you  ever  saw — . 

231 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


There  was  one  fellow — he  was  worth  saving — 
and  I  never  worked  so  hard  over  a  man  in  my 
life,  except  Stewart  when  he  was  hurt  at  the 
old  Station.  He  died,  though.  All  the  while 
I  kept  thinking  of  that  time  with  Stewart,  and 
how  you  brought  him  back  from  death.  I've 
never  understood  that,  and  I  never  learned 
anything  like  it  in  my  Materia  Medica.  It  was 
kind  of  uncanny,  but  it  did  the  work.  I  won- 
dered if  you  could  have  done  something  for 
that  fellow.  I  couldn't.  He  was  a  Scotchman, 
by  the  way,  of  the  rank  and  file." 

Here  the  letter  stopped.  On  a  fresh  sheet 
was  a  postscript. 

"Just  came  across  this  in  my  desk — two 
months  old.  I  must  have  thought  I  had  sent 
it  and  didn't.  Guess  I'll  let  it  go  though. 
Now  that  the  immediate  cholera  scare  is  over 
the  natives  are  playing  the  dickens  again  with 
the  water — as  they  always  do.  It  begins  to 
look  like  trouble.  When  the  spring  rains  come 
it'll  play  the  devil  with  the  Service  this  time. 
Well!" 

Trevelyan  put  down  the  letter.  There  was 
an  odd  fullness  in  his  throat. 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro. 

232 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Once  he  stopped  and  kicked  at  the  gravel  of 
the  drive  with  his  heel.  The  odd  fullness  in 
his  throat  grew,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  though 
an  invisible  force  was  impelling  him  to  India. 

Then  he  gripped  at  his  self-control,  and  qui- 
eted his  throbbing  brain  by  his  will.  There 
should  be  no  impetuous  passion  to  lead  him 
wrongly  here.  He  would  weigh  the  risks;  he 
would  force  himself  to  think  of  all  it  meant — 
of  all  the  horror  of  the  details — the  horrors  that 
were  unspeakable,  almost  unthinkable.  He 
had  seen  something  of  them  when  he  was  at  the 
Station.  Whatever  his  decision  there  should 
be  no  regrets. 

All  day  he  wandered  around  the  place — pre- 
occupied. He  did  not  touch  his  lunch,  and  he 
scarcely  touched  his  dinner. 

In  the  evening  he  went  into  the  great  library 
and  thought  it  out — alone. 

Had  the  dreams  come  to  this  ?  Was  this  the 
answer? 

Was  it  the  answer? 

He  sat  rigid  and  mute  questioning  the 
silence,  but  the  silence  gave  back  no  answer. 

Outside  the  stars  appeared  one  by  one,  only 
to  hide  themselves  behind  the  mist  that  slowly 

233 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


had  arisen,  and  the  cold  chill  of  midnight  crept 
in  through  the  closed  windows.  The  fire  on 
the  hearth  faded  from  its  steady  glow  of  gold 
to  the  red  of  the  dying  embers,  and  the  student 
lamp  on  the  table  flickered  and  went  out.  And 
still  Trevelyan  sat  rigid  and  mute,  with  his 
wide  eyes  questioning  the  silence. 

By  and  by  the  silence  became  alive,  and  was 
peopled  with  the  visions  of  his  thoughts.  He 
remembered  what  those  cholera  cases  were,  he 
had  seen  in  India — the  unutterableness  of  it  all 
— and  there  swept  over  him  not  so  much  the 
abhorrence  of  death  as  of  its  manifestation. 
After  all,  was  it  not  wholly  the  close  contact 
with  the  disease  itself  he  shrank  from? 
Death 

Why,  death  was  not  so  bad. 

And  Trevelyan's  tense  features  relaxed  a  lit- 
tle. 

After  all,  he  would  not  go  to  court  death. 
He  had  lived  through  that  desire  and  con- 
quered it  the  night  he  had  lain  wounded  by  his 
own  hand  in  the  military  hospital.  Foolhardi- 
ness  was  not  courage,  so  he  had  told  himself 
then,  and  so  he  believed  now. 

Then,  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would  catch 

234 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  plague  and  die.  He  had  always  laughed  at 
disease;  he  who  had  never  been  ill;  and  had 
not  Mackenzie  lived  through  one  of  the  worst 
epidemics  on  record — this  promised  to  be  mild, 
as  compared  to  it.  It  was  not  so  much  the  fear 
of  death  and  disease,  but  was  he  willing  to  ac- 
cept both  if  they  came? 

The  old  passionate  love  of  life  he  had  felt 
years  ago  when  a  boy,  fighting  the  storm  and 
the  sea  and  death,  shot  through  him  and  thrilled 
him  from  his  throbbing  head  to  his  feet.  He 
rose  and  flung  out  his  arms  and  bent  them  back- 
wards and  forwards.  He  could  feel  the  flow 
of  the  blood  and  the  life  that  was  there. 

Then  he  thought  of  Mackenzie's  letter  and 
he  pictured  the  oncoming  of  the  cholera,  and 
Mackenzie  and  his  little  band  fighting  the 
scourge  unaided.  What  was  the  strength  of 
his  life  for  if  not  to  serve  these ;  if  not  to  serve 
the  men  who  served  England!  Might  he  not 
so  serve  England,  too,  and  help  to  save,  per- 
haps, the  lives  of  those  who  fought  in  her  de- 
fense and  for  her  honor? 

It  would  be  service,  but  it  would  not  be  the 
service  he  had  dreamed  of  as  a  child,  and 
striven  for  as  a  boy  and  a  youth.  He  had 

235 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


thought  to  serve  with  the  sword,  and  perhaps — 
so  he  had  dreamed — meet  death  in  a  charge  like 
the  charge  his  father  had  made.  His  blood 
had  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  the  rally,  and  the 
command  he  would  send  down  the  line! 

Trevelyan  fumbled  in  the  dark  for  his  chair, 
and  sat  down. 

It  would  never  be  that.  If  he  should  die 
serving  Mackenzie  and  England  what  he  had 
done  would  die  with  him.  He  might  be  men- 
tioned in  the  Reports,  but  Reports — 

Well;  why  not?  What  had  he  done  for 
England  that  England  should  remember  him? 
He  had  only  served  England  in  dishonor. 

"  When  the  men  died — the  fires — " 

It  would  not  even  mean  that  he  could  be 
brought  back  here — to  Scotland,  to  his  crags 
and  sea — to  rest  in  the  old  vault.  That  last 
dream  would  have  to  fade  even  as  the  other 
dreams  had  faded. 

He  might  not  serve  England  gloriously;  he 
might  help  the  Service  only  indirectly,  but 
would  not  the  service  and  the  help  be  there? 
Might  he  not  so  pick  up  the  broken  pieces? 

Still  the  silence  gave  back  no  answer. 

The  wan  gray  dawn  stole  in  through  the  lift- 

236 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ing  mist  and  found  him  wide-eyed  and  sleepless 
still. 

After  awhile  he  rose  again  and  stretched  his 
stiff  legs  and  went  down  the  hall  to  the  front 
door  and  opened  it.  The  chill  of  the  early 
dawn  struck  him  and  he  shivered.  He  walked 
down  to  the  sea  and  stood  there,  looking  out 
over  the  gray,  cold  waste  of  waters,  and  then  he 
climbed  to  the  eyrie,  and  looked  out  over  the 
waters  again.  They  seemed  colder  and  grayer 
than  before,  and  from  force  of  habit  he  crawled 
to  the  ledge  and  leaned  over.  The  swish, 
s-w-i-s-h,  of  the  breakers  below  reached  him, 
and  through  the  faint  mist  he  could  see  the 
white  foam.  The  toss  of  the  spray  touched 
his  face  in  friendly  greeting  as  it  had  done  so 
often — so  often  before. 

The  faintest  touch  of  shell-like  pink  crept 
into  the  gray  sky  and  deepened,  and  was  re- 
flected on  the  sea,  and  still  Trevelyan  lingered. 

The  old  passionate  strength  of  the  boy-child 
came  back  to  him  then,  as  he  hung,  listening  to 
the  beat  of  the  sea.  The  self-assurance  had 
gone  from  the  courage,  and  had  been  crushed 
beyond  restoration  when  he  had  broken  the 
clay;  but  the  courage  was  there — born  afresh 

237 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


— unyielding  and  enduring  and  deep  as  the 
sea. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  he  flung  out  his  arms 
toward  the  sea  as  he  had  done  when  he  had 
beaten  it  and  the  storm  and  death,  in  Gary's 
home,  as  a  child;  but  he  said  nothing,  for  the 
odd  fullness  in  his  throat.  Let  death  come  so, 
his  heart  cried.  Death,  even  when  it  strikes, 
does  not  always  conquer,  and  Death  was  not  all. 

Then  he  climbed  down  and  went  back  to  the 
house,  and  up-stairs  and  flung  himself  on  his 
bed. 

The  sea  had  answered  his  questionings. 

Thus  would  he  serve  the  Service. 


238 


VIII. 

IT  was  late  in  the  forenoon  when  Trevel- 
yan  awoke.  He  lay  still  awhile  listen- 
ing to  the  beat  of  the  sea  on  the  crags. 
The  music  of  the  waters  had  been  his  reveille 
since  a  child,  when  he  had  used  to  get  up  with 
the  break  of  the  day.  The  old  triumphant  note 
that  had  been  missing  in  the  sea's  song  so  long 
was  in  it  to-day.  He  did  not  define  it,  but  he 
was  acutely  conscious  of  its  presence,  and  it 
haunted  him  while  dressing  and  all  during  his 
lonely  breakfast. 

Then  he  went  up-stairs  and  got  his  Glad- 
stone and  rummaged  through  his  bureau  draw- 
ers and  closets,  preparing  for  a  short  journey. 
Later,  he  sent  for  Mactier. 

The  old  man  came  at  once  and  stood  in  the 
doorway  respectful  and  silent,  watching  his 
master  pack. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mactier  ?     Well,  I'm  off  again. 

239 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


I'm  going  to  run  over  to  Mr.  John's.  I'll  be 
back  day  after  to-morrow  or  the  next — sure." 

Mactier  twirled  his  cap  around  and  around 
with  his  hands,  and  looked  down  at  it  hard. 

"  Ay,  sir." 

"  I'll  come  right  back  from  there,"  Trevel- 
yan  went  on,  sorting  collars,  as  he  spoke,  "  and 
then  I'll  go  over  the  accounts  with  you  and  see 
what  the  tenants  want.  I'm  going  back  to  In- 
dia as  soon  as  I  can  get  there." 

Mactier's  stoic  Scotch  features  showed  no 
surprise. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  he  said  again,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Tis  what  I've  expected  this  lang  time." 

Trevelyan  looked  up  from  his  packing, 
amused. 

"  You  have — have  you  ?  " 

"  Is  it  the  army,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mactier,  doubt- 
fully. 

Trevelyan  sat  back  on  his  heels. 

"  No,"  he  said,  briefly,  not  meeting  Mac- 
tier's  eyes,  "  it's  the  cholera." 

The  cap  Mactier  had  been  twirling  dropped 
suddenly  from  his  hand  and  he  came  a  step 
forward.  The  long  years  in  which  Trevelyan 

240 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


had  grown  to  be  a  man  faded  from  Mactier's 
consciousness;  the  big  retired  officer  of  the 
Queen's  service,  was  a  boy  again — the  boy 
whom  he  had  flung  across  his  shoulder  when  he 
was  wounded  and  brought  home  through  the 
darkness  of  that  long  moorland  night. 

"  Not  the  cholera,  laddie !  O,  not  the  chol- 
era!" 

"  That's  just  what  it's  going  to  be,"  said 
Trevelyan,  wheeling  around  suddenly  on  his 
heel.  "  Where  in  thunder  is  that  shirt?  " 

The  old  impetuous  decision  brought  Mactier 
back  to  his  surroundings  at  once.  He  was 
again  the  old  retainer  with  the  respectful  man- 
ner and  the  stoic  Scotch  face.  He  stooped  and 
picked  from  the  floor  the  shirt  that  had  fallen 
from  the  bed. 

"  Here  it  is,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  That's  it.  Thanks."  Trevelyan  gave  the 
shirt  a  shake  and  laid  it  in  the  Gladstone. 
"  I'm  just  going  to  look  around  out  there — 
you  know  I  never  could  stay  long  in  one  place 
at  a  time,  Mactier — and  perhaps  help  the  sol- 
diers a  little.  I'll  be  back  before  you  know  it !  " 

Mactier  continued  to  hand  him  slowly  one 

241 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


by  one  the  articles  on  the  bed,  which  Trevelyan 
put  into  the  Gladstone.  The  old  man  was 
silent. 

Trevelyan  closed  the  Gladstone  with  a  snap 
and  looked  up,  a  quizzical  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"  You're  not  afraid  I'm  going  to  get  the 
cholera  and  die — are  you  ?  " 

Mactier  looked  down  at  him  adoringly. 

"Ay,  sir,  I  fear  just  that." 

Trevelyan  laughed. 

"  Nonsense !  Nothing  has  ever  killed  me 
yet."  He  rose  and  pushed  the  Gladstone  to 
one  side  with  his  foot.  "  When  I  get  back  from 
Aberdeen,  we'll  fix  everything  up  for  the  year. 
If  anything  goes  wrong  or  you  want  any  ad- 
vice, you  can  refer  to  Mr.  Granger  as  usual. 
He'll  come  up  from  Edinburgh  if  necessary." 

"  Veera  gude,  sir." 

"  I  guess  that's  about  all  for  the  present. 
You'd  better  tell  James  to  have  the  trap  around 
in  plenty  of  time  to  get  me  to  that  afternoon 
train." 

Trevelyan  reached  the  Stewarts'  the  next 
morning.  They  were  not  expecting  him,  and 
the  little  country  station  was  deserted.  He 
hired  a  carriage  and  a  man,  and  was  driven  the 

242 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


seven  miles  that  lay  between  him  and  the  house. 
He  looked  out  over  the  long  stretch  of  familiar 
road  with  indifferent  eyes,  and  the  liveryman 
who  had  known  him  ever  since  the  year  his 
aunt  had  brought  him  to  Aberdeen  county, 
when  his  mother  had  died,  wondered  at  his  si- 
lence. Trevelyan's  heart  throbs  kept  time  to  the 
revolving  of  the  carriage  wheels. 

"  We  are  taking  you  to  her,"  they  cried  again 
and  again — maddeningly.  "  You  are  to  see 
her  again,"  they  cried,  and  his  heart  was  in 
his  throat  as  the  carriage  turned  in  at  the  big 
twisted  iron  gates. 

He  caught  sight  of  her  a  long  distance  off, 
and  before  the  noise  of  the  approaching  wheels 
had  attracted  attention.  She  was  a  little  apart 
from  the  group  that  was  gathered  on  the  side 
piazza.  Malcolm  Stewart  had  added  years  ago 
to  the  rambling  old  house.  She  was  seated  on 
a  step,  her  big  shade  hat  covered  with  wild 
flowers,  lying  at  her  feet,  and  adding  a  touch  of 
color  to  the  pale  effect  of  her  gray  dress.  Her 
hands  were  resting  in  her  lap  and  she  was  look- 
ing off  absent-mindedly  toward  the  stretch  of 
sunlit  beach. 

Mrs.  Stewart  was  reading  aloud,  now  and 

243 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


then  putting  out  her  hand  to  stroke  John's,  that 
rested  on  the  arm  of  the  big  garden  chair  drawn 
close  to  hers.  He  was  looking  steadily  up  at  the 
white  clouds  sailing  overhead  and  smiling  to 
himself — not  listening  to  the  reading.  Tom 
Cameron  was  teasing  Maggie's  collie  because 
he  did  not  dare  tease  Maggie. 

And  all  about  the  group  the  noonday  sun  of 
autumn  lay  as  warm  and  bright  as  it  might 
have  done  in  summer. 

It  was  Maggie  who  first  heard  the  carriage 
and  who  caught  sight  of  its  approach  around 
the  curve  in  the  long  drive.  She  scrambled  to 
her  feet,  and  gathering  up  her  skirts  tore  down 
the  steps  and  drive  to  meet  it,  Tom  Cameron 
at  her  heels  and  the  collie  bringing  up  the  rear. 

"  It's  Rob,"  she  shouted,  breathlessly,  and 
tripped  suddenly  and  lay  sprawling  on  the 
ground,  the  collie  barking  frantically  and  whirl- 
ing around  her  in  the  dust  of  the  gravel. 

Trevelyan  flung  the  reins  to  the  liveryman 
and  jumped  down. 

"  Hello,  Maggie,"  he  cried,  picking  her  up 
before  Cameron  could  reach  her.  "  Hello, 
Tom !  There,  don't  bark  yourself  mad,  Bruce ! 
Hello,  everybody ! " 

244 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


They  gathered  around  him,  and  his  aunt 
kissed  him  affectionately. 

"  You're  a  good  boy,"  she  said,  the  charm  of 
a  rare  smile  lighting  up  her  eyes.  "  But  why 
did  you  not  wire  you  were  coming  so  that  we 
could  have  met  you?  Your  boxes  are  com- 
ing later?" 

"  Thought  I'd  surprise  you  all.  Here's  my 
box  now."  He  motioned  to  the  liveryman, 
who  was  lifting  his  Gladstone  out  of  the  trap. 

"  That?  "  said  Maggie  scornfully. 

Trevelyan  laughed,  conscious  the  while  that 
Gary  was  coming  toward  him. 

"  It's  good  to  see  you  again,"  she  said  simply, 
putting  her  hand  in  his  and  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes,  "  But  I  said  you  wouldn't 
come !  " 

"  Did  you  ?  "  he  asked,  forgetting  the  group 
around  him  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  Why?  " 

She  smiled  slowly. 

"  Oh,  I  hardly  know.  I  suppose  because  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  leave  home  and  your  old 
crags  and  your  big  thunder  storms.  We're  so 
much  quieter  here." 

Trevelyan  turned  sharply  and  beat  his  big 
hand  softly  against  John's  shoulder. 

245 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  How  are  you,  old  man  ?  "  he  asked,  not 
raising  his  eyes  from  his  own  hand. 

"  Fine.  I'm  getting  on  my  feet  again.  I 
drive  myself  now,  and  ride  a  little  and  walk." 

"  Good.  Hello,  Maggie — going  on  break- 
ing Tom's  heart?  "  he  pulled  disrespectfully  at 
one  of  Maggie's  stray  curls,  while  Cameron 
fumed  inwardly. 

Maggie  nodded  cheerfully  and  beckoned 
Cameron  to  come  and  wipe  the  dust  from  her 
dress  with  his  handkerchief. 

They  bore  Trevelyan  back  with  them  to  the 
piazza,  and  Mrs.  Stewart  sent  for  some  lunch, 
which  he  eat  out  there  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Stewart  flung  himself  back  in  his  big  garden 
chair  a  little  distance  away  and  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hand,  studying  Trevelyan's  face. 
There  was  something  in  it  he  could  not  under- 
stand and  it  haunted  him.  He  continued  to 
watch  it  all  the  morning,  and  when  Trevelyan 
was  playing  tennis  with  Cameron.  And  later 
his  eyes  would  wander  from  Trevelyan  to  Cary, 
sitting  over  with  his  sister  at  the  tea  table.  He 
noticed  with  a  great  pain  at  his  heart  that  Cary 
was  watching  Trevelyan  too,  and  that  there 
rested  over  her  face  an  expression  that  he,  who 

246 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


had  studied  her  every  mood,  had  never  seen 
before,  and  he  wondered  suddenly  if  he  had 
been  a  fool — living  in  a  fool's  paradise  of  late. 
Perhaps  it  was  Trevelyan  after  all — per- 
haps— 

Perhaps,  too,  the  light  that  had  sometimes 
crept  shyly  into  her  eyes  during  these  last  days 
— as  shyly  as  a  sunbeam  creeps  into  gray  wells 
of  beauty — had  not  dawned  for  him.  And  all 
their  walks  upon  the  beach ;  and  all  their  drives 
together;  and  all  their  watching  of  the  rising 
moon  had  been  nothing  to  her  after  all.  And 
they  had  been  his  life! 

All  night  he  lay  awake,  suffering  dumbly, 
not  knowing  that  Trevelyan  in  the  adjoining 
room  lay  stretched  across  the  bed,  his  face  bur- 
ied in  the  pillow,  wondering  passionately  how 
he  was  to  say  "  good-bye  "  to  her  to-morrow — 
without  her  knowing !  Without  her  knowing ! 


247 


IX. 


AT  dawn  Trevelyan  got  up  and  waited 
at  the  window  for  the  sunrise.  By  and 
by  he  could  hear  the  servants  mov- 
ing below  stairs.  The  long  minutes  passed. 
From  a  turn  in  the  drive  he  could  see  Martin  re- 
turning with  the  mail  that  had  come  in  late  the 
night  before.  He  watched  him  curiously  as  he 
paused  to  speak  with  McGuire,  the  gardener, 
and  he  wondered  in  an  indifferent  sort  of  way 
what  he  was  saying  that  caused  the  latter  to 
suddenly  grow  so  excited.  He  rose  and  went 
down  stairs,  meeting  Martin  at  the  door. 

"Anything  the  matter?" 

Martin  jerked  off  his  cap  awkwardly,  and 
handed  him  the  mail  and  the  papers. 

"  It's  them  Gordon  'Ighlanders,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  If  you'll  look  at  the  paper — " 

Trevelyan  opened  the  sheet. 

Martin  watched  him  from  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. He  saw  Trevelyan  crush  the  paper 

248 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


suddenly  in  his  hand  and  turn  sharply  on  his 
heel,  and  go  into  the  library  and  close  the  door. 

"  I  thought  that  there  would  stir  Master  Rob- 
ert up,"  he  muttered.  "  Law !  that  was  awful 
fine,  an'  won't  Betty  stare  an'  hollow ! " 

An  hour  later  the  family  assembled  in  the 
breakfast  room. 

"  Where  is  Robert  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stewart, 
sitting  down. 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  His  room's  empty.  Must  be  taking  a  walk. 
What  has  become  of  the  morning  paper  ?  " 

Trevelyan  appeared  suddenly  in  the  door- 
way. He  held  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  his 
face  was  as  white  as  the  sheet.  His  uncle  rose 
hastily. 

"  Great  heavens,  boy !    What's  the  matter?  " 

"  Matter?  "  Trevel van's  voice  rang  out  ex- 
citedly. "Read  that!" 

Half  a  dozen  hands  reached  out  for  the 
paper.  Trevelyan  snatched  it  hungrily  back. 

"  Let  me  read  it  to  you !  It's  the  Gordon 
Highlanders."  Trevelyan's  words  stumbled 
over  each  other.  "  They've  assaulted  the 
Dargai  Hill!  The  Gurkhas,  Dorsets  and 
Derbys  couldn't  take  it !  Then  General  Kemps- 

249 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ter  ordered  the  Gordon  Highlanders  and  the 
Third  Sikhs  to  reinforce  the  fighting  line.  The 
pipers  played  the  '  Cock  of  the  North/  and  then 
the  mixed  troops — the  Highlanders  and  the 
Dorsets  and  Gurkhas  and  Derbys  and  Sikhs 
swept  across!  God!  Look  at  the  list  of  the 
dead!" 

Trevelyan  tossed  the  paper  to  John  and 
turned  away  and  leaned  against  the  sideboard, 
his  elbows  on  it,  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Young  Stewart  caught  the  paper  and  sat 
down  at  the  table  and  spread  it  out  in  front  of 
him  with  nervous  fingers,  and  began  to  read, 
the  rest  gathering  around  him.  The  High- 
landers of  Aberdeen ! 

The  breakfast  stood  untouched,  growing 
colder  every  minute,  but  no  one  thought  of  it. 

Young  Stewart's  voice  got  husky  now  and 
then,  and  when  he  was  half  way  through  the 
sheet,  he  pushed  it  over  to  Cameron  and  rose. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  finish  it,"  he  said. 

It  was  hard  to  forget  that  if  it  had  not  been 
for  that  India  transfer,  he  would  have  been 
with  the  Highlanders! 

Trevelyan  came  forward  suddenly,  and 
leaned  over  Gary's  chair. 

250 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Isn't  it  splendid,"  he  said.  "  That's  the  way 
we  Scotch  fight — "  he  broke  off  abruptly,  re- 
coiling before  the  consciousness  that  he  had  not 
fought  so. 

"  It's  grand,"  cried  the  American  girl,  her 
breath  coming  quickly. 

The  elder  Stewart  looked  up  for  a  moment 
from  the  paper  he  was  reading  over  Cameron's 
shoulder. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  there,  Robert ! 
That's  just  your  kind  of  work ! " 

"I  wish  to  God  I  had!" 

Mrs.  Stewart  crossed  the  room  and  went 
over  to  where  John  was  sitting  at  the  furthest 
end  of  the  table,  his  chin  in  his  hand.  She 
sat  down  by  him  and  leaned  forward  to  speak  to 
him. 

"  I  know  it's  hard,"  she  said,  "  but  think  how 
I  would  have  felt !  " 

Stewart  drew  outlines  on  the  cloth  with  the 
breakfast  knife  he  had  picked  up. 

"  We  won't  talk  of  it,"  he  answered,  and  he 
turned  his  face  away. 

His  mother  said  nothing,  and  by  and  by  she 
rose  and  went  back  to  the  group.  Something 
in  her  face  as  she  came  up  to  them  attracted 

251 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Trevelyan  and  he  stopped  short  in  his  excited 
talk  and  looked  toward  the  solitary  figure  at  the 
end  of  the  table.  His  grasp  suddenly  relaxed 
on  Gary's  chair  and  he  went  up  to  Stewart  and 
sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  gripped 
hard  at  his  shoulder. 

"  I'm  a  brute,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  he 
kept  his  grip  on  Stewart's  arm,  and  it  was  he 
who  by  and  by  led  the  others  to  calm  down  and 
eat  their  breakfast  after  some  sort  of  a  fashion. 

He  was  to  leave  at  midnight,  and  he  had 
come  especially  to  see  Gary,  but  he  scarcely 
saw  her  throughout  the  length  of  the  long  day. 
After  that  he  devoted  himself  to  Stewart,  forc- 
ing him  to  think  and  speak  of  other  things  be- 
sides the  great  excitement  of  the  hour.  He 
laughed  with  him;  he  talked  to  him,  and  they 
went  over  their  boyhood  again.  It  was  as  it 
had  once  been  between  them,  before  they  had 
grown  to  men.  Once  in  the  twilight  Trevelr 
yan  spoke  of  Gary. 

"  Things  are  all  going  to  pull  straight  be- 
tween you,"  he  said. 

But  Stewart,  remembering  the  look  on 
Gary's  face,  when  she  had  been  watching  Trev- 
elyan the  day  before,  shook  his  head. 

252 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


It  was  not  until  Trevelyan  went  to  dress  for 
dinner  that  he  realized  that  the  real  hardness  of 
the  task  lay  undone.  He  would  leave  at  mid- 
night, and  only  God  knew  when  he  would 
come  to  Aberdeen  again — and  God  was  silent. 
To-night  would  mean  "  good-bye." 

After  dinner  he  went  up  to  Gary  as  she  was 
sitting  at  the  piano  in  the  music  room. 

"  Won't  you  come  for  a  walk  on  the  beach  ?  " 

She  looked  up,  flushed,  and  her  hands  fell 
back  upon  the  keys  discordantly. 

"  Why — I  don't  know.     Isn't  it  too  cold?  " 

"  It  isn't  cold,"  he  said,  picking  up  a  white 
cashmere  shawl  and  flinging  it  across  her  bare 
shoulders.  "  Come." 

A  tone  in  his  voice  caught  and  held  her 
wavering  and  turned  it  to  decision.  She  rose. 

They  passed  Stewart  in  the  hall,  on  his  way 
to  the  music  room,  his  flute  in  his  hand. 

"  We're  going  down  to  the  shore  for  a  little 
while,"  said  Trevelyan,  pausing  before  mov- 
ing on. 

Stewart  nodded. 

"  Oh,  all  right.     Don't  get  cold,  Gary." 

And  he  went  on  to  the  deserted  music  room. 

Trevelyan  led  her  down  the  little  path  to 

253 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


the  beach.  He  talked  in  a  matter  of  fact  way 
on  indifferent  subjects,  as  though  to  set  her  at 
her  ease.  He  smiled  grimly  to  the  darkness. 

"  She's  afraid  I'll  forget  myself,"  he  kept 
thinking. 

They  came  from  out  of  the  strip  of  woods 
and  its  shadows  to  the  beach,  stretching  away 
on  either  hand  in  the  distance,  and  sloping 
ahead  of  them  into  the  sea  that  kissed  it  and 
then  receded,  holding  it  at  arm's  length  before 
it  embraced  it  again,  as  a  lover  does  his  sweet- 
heart. The  slow  creeping  up  and  retreating  of 
the  waters  came  faintly  and  soothingly  to  their 
ears.  Far  off  a  faint  light  appeared  in  the 
heavens,  marking  the  rising  moon.  The  burden 
of  the  day  and  the  excitement  of  the  battle  crept 
off  and  were  lost  in  the  shadows. 

"  I  haven't  seen  the  moon  rise  on  the  beach 
since  I  was  a  youngster,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"  It's  beautiful,"  said  Gary.  "  I  always  get 
near  the  moonlight  when  I  can." 

"  Do  you  ?  Well,  it  pays  one.  It  is  beauti- 
ful. I  don't  believe  I  ever  quite  appreciated 
the  moon  and  the  beach  here  when  I  was  a  lit- 
tle chap." 

"  Your  aunt  once  told  me  how  unhappy  you 

254 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


were  when  they  brought  you  here — to  Aber- 
deen county." 

"  I  fancy  that's  pretty  straight.  I  never  took 
kindly  to  the  level  beach.  I  wanted  my  crags 
and  my  breakers  and  old  Mactier.  Mactier 
and  the  crags  and  the  breakers  were  always 
associated  together  in  my  small  mind." 

He  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  so ;  but  it's  so  peaceful  here — " 
Gary  broke  off. 

"  Yes ;  but  do  you  know  I've  a  notion  that 
some  day  or  other,  you'll  come  often  to  the  old 
place  in  Argyll  and  you'll  love  it  as  I  love  it 
now." 

Gary  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  Could  it  be 
that  he  still  hoped  that  some  day — 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  beautiful,"  she  said,  "  but  it's  terrible ! 
The  beat  of  the  sea  on  the  crags  always  seems 
to  be  chanting  something  that  I  can't  under- 
stand. It's  a  foolish  idea,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Trevelyan  walked  down  to  the  water's  edge. 

"  It's  been  chanting  to  me  ever  since  I  was 
born,"  he  replied. 

He  looked  out  over  the  quiet  waters. 

"  The  sea  here  don't  talk  to  me,"  he  went 

255 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


on.  "  It  never  did.  It  isn't  like  my  Scotland ! 
Come,  we'd  better  walk  a  little;  you'll  get  cold 
standing." 

She  gathered  the  cashmere  that  had  slipped 
from  her  shoulders  around  her,  and  brought  it 
up,  covering  her  head.  Her  face  white  as  the 
white  moonlight  looked  out  from  its  folds. 
Once  a  wave  bolder  than  its  fellows,  crept  up 
and  wet  her  feet  and  the  edge  of  the  long  skirt 
she  was  holding  with  one  hand.  She  scarcely 
noticed  it.  Once  she  turned  her  face  away 
from  Trevelyan's  and  looked  out  across  the 
shining  sea,  to  where  it  lay  dark  against  the 
horizon.  A  great  pity  and  a  great  awe,  of 
something  she  could  not  define,  lay  heavy  upon 
her  and  made  her  silent.  It  was  as  if  this 
"  good-bye  "  was  to  be  the  longest  she  had  ever 
said.  From  the  house,  showing  through  the 
trees,  came  a  stream  of  light.  It  was  from 
the  music  room  and  it  mingled  with  the 
white  radiance  that  lay  across  the  sea.  And 
then  through  the  quiet,  there  stole  the  first, 
faint  notes  of  John's  flute.  The  music  began 
softly  and  caressingly,  and  rose  and  filled  the 
spaces  all  around  them.  It  sobbed  and  moaned 
and  called  entreatingly  to  her,  and  then  it  sank 

256 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


into  a  marvelous  crescendo ;  only  to  throb  again 
against  the  silence — still  entreating  her  to  re- 
turn, before  it  faded  slowly  and  died  away  al- 
together. 

The  sobbing  and  the  moaning  of  it  pulsed 
in  Trevelyan's  brain.  This  was  good-bye.  It 
was  good-bye  as  he  had  never  dreamed  it.  He 
could  have  fallen  down  before  that  white 
moon-touched  face  and  cried  the  good-bye  out, 
clinging  to  her  feet.  He  could  have  cried  it 
out,  his  head  upon  her  breast;  he  could  have 
cried  it  out,  with  her  resting  in  his  arms,  but 
silence  laid  its  seal  on  him  instead. 

Out  in  India,  with  Mackenzie,  in  the  awful 
shadow  of  the  plague,  he  would  remember  her 
so,  with  her  white  moon-touched  face. 

What  had  he  done  to  hope  for  such  a  good- 
bye? Only  a  man  who  has  won  a  woman 
could  cry  out  his  heart's  fullness  so ;  and  he  had 
lost  her!  What  right  had  he  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  going  away,  hoping  so  to  wrest  from 
her  some  word  of  approbation  or  of  pity? 
Might  she  not  say  something  that  she  would 
regret  afterwards?  He  could  go  back  home, 
and  he  could  write  her  briefly.  Then  she 
would  remember  this  night.  Then,  whatever 

257 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


he  had  said  or  left  unsaid  to-night  or  in  the 
note,  she  would  understand. 

As  for  him — out  in  India  with  Mackenzie, 
in  the  awful  shadow  of  the  plague,  he  would 
remember  her  so,  with  her  white  moon-kissed 
face.  He  would  hear  again,  louder  than  the 
moans  of  sufferings,  the  wondrous  love  music 
of  Stewart's  flute  and  the  song  of  the  sea.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  would  hear  it  and  see  her  so, 
if  he  were  dying.  And  yet,  he  told  himself, 
he  would  have  given  up  his  life  right  there 
before  she  should  think  that  he  had  done  this 
thing  because  of  her  approbation  or  her  pity. 

If  he  could  only  have  been  with  the  High- 
landers at  the  assault!  If — well,  death  would 
never  come  to  him  so.  He  had  fought  that  out 
in  the  hospital  and  again  the  other  night  at 
home. 

The  music  sobbed  itself  into  silence. 

"  The  old  beach  is  a  good  deal  prettier  by 
night  than  I  ever  used  to  fancy  it  could  be,  as 
a  little  chap,"  he  said  after  awhile.  "  I'll  re- 
member it  when  I'm  back  in — Argyll." 

"  Why  in  the  world  are  you  in  such  a  hurry 
to  get  back  ?  "  asked  Gary. 

"  Oh,  there  are  some  things  to  be  looked  out 

258 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


for,  and  accounts  to  be  gone  over  with  Mac- 
tier.     I  couldn't  do  without  him." 

"  No,  indeed.  You're  going  to  stay  there 
during  the  winter,  I  suppose.  You'll  go  back 
to  London  for  the  season  ?  " 

"  I  guess  not  this  year,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not 
much  on  the  society  act." 

"You'll  be  lonely — won't  you?" 

Trevelyan  stopped  and  beat  his  foot  against 
the  sand  and  looked  down  at  it. 

"  Oh,  I've  been  a  lonely  kind  of  a  chap  all 
my  life,"  he  said  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone. 

Gary  caught  her  breath  quickly,  turning 
away  that  he  might  not  see  her  face. 

"  It's  all  my  own  doing,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
know  it.  I  never  was  very  sociable.  I  fancy 
I  was  born  cross  and  horrid  and  crooked." 

He  laughed  a  little. 

Gary  turned  to  him  and  she  put  out  her 
hand  and  for  a  moment  it  rested  on  his  sleeve. 
He  looked  down  at  her  upturned  face,  on  which 
the  moon  was  shining.  A  faint  smile  was 
folded  around  her  mouth,  hiding  the  pity  be- 
neath. She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,  you're  not !  "  she  said.  "  You're 
brave  and  you're  strong,  and  some  day — " 

259 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Yes— and  'some  day'?" 

"  You're  going  to   do  something  fine ! " 

He  shook  his  head  in  denial. 

"  I  lost  my  chance,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  You  will  have  another,"  she  said,  the  hope 
of  all  the  world  in  her  voice.  "  We  all  have 
our  second  chance." 

"  Not  like  that — not  like  those  Highlanders 
— "  he  broke  off  and  his  hands  came  up  swiftly 
to  either  side  of  the  lifted,  moon-lit  face.  He 
could  have  crushed  it,  white  and  radiant  as  it 
was,  between  his  hands;  he  could  have  kissed 
and  kissed  and  kissed  it ! 

And  then  his  hands  came  up  slowly,  and  he 
held  her  face  as  gently  as  the  Captain  would 
have  done. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  back  to  the  house," 
he  said,  looking  down  at  her.  "  You  are 
shivering.  I  might  have  known  you  would 
take  cold." 

She  shrank  back,  trembling  from  the  dumb 
anguish  in  his  eyes,  and  covered  her  own  with 
her  hands. 

Why  couldn't  he  have  been  with  the  High- 
landers ? 

260 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  drew  one  of  her  hands  slowly  down. 

"Don't,"  he  said;  "Don't  act  so.  Did  I 
hurt  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  raised  the  hand  he  held  to  his  lips  and 
he  kissed  it  passionately,  holding  it  close 
against  his  mouth  for  a  moment,  as  though  to 
seal  the  kiss  there. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  you  believe  in  me,"  he 
said,  "  I'm  awfully  glad  for  that  '  some  day ' 
you  think  of.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  a  '  some 
day,' too?" 

She  nodded  in  silence. 

"  Well,  then,  '  some  day '  you'll  marry  just 
like  all  the  girls  do,  but  you'll  marry  some  out 
of  sight  fellow — "  he  broke  off,  and  retraced  his 
steps  to  the  house,  adjusting  his  military  walk 
to  her  slower  one. 

She  pulled  at  the  edge  of  her  shawl.  She 
was  thinking  if  it  had  not  been  for  Trevelyan, 
Stewart  would  have  been  at  the  Dargai  Hill. 

She  bent  her  head  as  she  entered  the  strip  of 
wood,  and  the  twigs  felt  out  caressingly  and 
touched  her  dress  as  she  passed.  The  breath 
of  the  one  red  rose  on  her  bosom  came  up  to  her 
like  the  voice  of  love,  and  over  her  white  face 

261 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


there  stole  the  faintest  color  of  the  rose,  and 
she  breathed  quicker,  remembering  the  music  of 
the  flute. 

Stewart  turned  from  the  long  window.  He 
could  see  them  emerging  from  the  darkness  of 
the  wood  into  the  moon-lit  open.  Trevelyan 
had  spoken  to  him  of  Gary  but  what  if  Gary 
cared  for  Trevelyan  after  all !  And  he  laid  the 
silent  flute  away. 


262 


X. 


AT  midnight  Trevelyan  stumbled  blindly 
into  the  railway  carriage,  without  a 
backward  glance  at  Stewart,  who  had 
insisted  on  taking  the  long,  dark  drive  to  the 
station  to  see  him  off.     Once  in  the  darkness 
Trevelyan  had  put  his  hand  heavily  on  Stew- 
art's knee,  and  leaned  back  and  stared  into  the 
blackness  ahead.       All  that  Stewart  had  ever 
been  to  him — all  that  they  had  ever  been  to 
each  other,  swept  across  him. 

Out  there  with  the  plague  and  Mackenzie, 
his  eyes  would  ache  for  a  sight  of  Stewart's 
strong,  kind  face,  but  Stewart  would  not  know. 
Out  there,  in  the  shadow  of  death,  he  would 
remember  Stewart,  and  his  heart  would  cry  out 
passionately  for  him,  but  Stewart  would  not 
know.  And  he  would  think  of  Gary — how  he 
would  think  of  her — of  her  and  Stewart.  He 
would  think  of  them  together. 

263 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


If  he  might  only  tell  Stewart  what  this 
parting  meant — that  it  was  longer  than  he 
dreamed — and  that  he  was  not  merely  seeing 
him  off  to  Argyll. 

But  what  right  had  he  to  speak?  Stewart 
could  not  change  his  decision  now;  nor  his 
uncle,  nor  his  aunt,  nor  his  father,  were  he 
home,  nor  all  London,  nor — Gary.  They 
would  grieve  when  the  letters  came  to  them, 
but  they  would  be  spared  the  pain  of  parting. 
It  was  better  so. 

It  was  toward  the  evening  of  the  next  day 
when  he  reached  home,  and  after  he  had  fin- 
ished his  dinner  he  went  into  the  big  library, 
walked  over  to  his  desk  and  unlocked  it. 

"  Now  for  it,"  he  said  briefly,  and  he  sat 
down  and  began  sorting  papers,  preparatory  to 
going  over  them  the  next  day  with  Mactier  and 
his  barrister,  Mr.  Granger,  whom  he  had  wired 
to  come  from  Edinburgh  and  meet  him  at  home 
the  next  morning. 

He  worked  far  into  the  night,  and  the  next 
day  it  was  the  same.  Literally  he  set  his  house 
in  order.  Granger  returned  to  Edinburgh  on 
the  evening  train,  and  Mactier  received  his  in- 
structions— in  silence,  shifting  his  old  cap  be- 

264 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


tween  his  fingers,  but  not  looking  up  to  meet 
Trevelyan's  eyes. 

Then  Trevelyan  had  dinner.  After  the  meal 
was  over  he  tried  to  rest  but  he  could  not,  and 
he  went  out  into  the  hall  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down — swiftly.  There  was  no  other 
sound  in  all  the  house  but  his  rapid  walking. 
Solitude  enveloped  him  and  the  home  of  his 
people.  Once  he  stopped  and  looked  at  the 
armor  on  the  wall;  once  he  opened  the  front 
door  and  stood  on  the  steps  staring  into  the 
night.  The  Pleiades  were  brighter  and  further 
off  he  remembered,  thinking  afterwards,  than 
he  had  ever  seen  them ;  but  the  rest —  the  stretch 
of  winding  drive  and  lawn  and  trees  lay 
wrapped  in  profound  shadow  and  appeared  un- 
real ;  only  the  Pleiades  and  the  beating  of  the 
surf  against  the  crags,  seemed  the  things  that 
existed. 

The  night  air  was  cold  and  he  went  in  and 
back  to  the  library,  and  put  another  log  upon 
the  flickering  blaze,  and  as  the  wood  caught 
fire  warmed  his  hands  with  the  heat.  After 
awhile  he  lighted  his  candle  and  went  upstairs. 

The  next  morning  he  said  good-bye  to  the 
tenantry;  in  the  afternoon  he  packed  his  grip 

265 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


and  the  few  things  needed  for  the  coming 
journey.  In  the  evening  he  wrote  half  a  dozen 
letters — brief  notes  telling  his  father  and  his 
aunt  and  uncle  of  his  intended  return  to  India. 
They  were  all  worded  much  the  same.  The 
old  spirit  of  restlessness  was  on  him.  He 
wanted  excitement.  He  was  running  out  to 
India  for  a  time  to  watch  Mackenzie  fight  the 
cholera.  They  were  not  to  worry.  He  ex- 
pected to  have  a  great  time  of  it.  His  note  to 
John  was  even  briefer,  but  it  was  more  serious 
in  tone. 

"  DEAR  OLD  JOHNNY  : — "  it  ran : 

"  Good-bye.  I'm  off  for  India  again.  You 
see  I  can't  keep  away  from  it.  I  suppose  it's 
on  the  order  of  a  man  wanting  to  return  to  the 
scene  of  his  murder. 

"  I'm  a  lucky  dog,  and  of  course  I  expect  to 
return,  but  the  plague  isn't  always  considerate 
of  persons,  and  there's  the  hundredth  chance. 
I  expect  to  come  back  and  live  at  home  myself. 
Still  Granger  has  the  will.  If  I  don't  you're  to 
have  the  old  place.  You'll  come  to  it  some- 
times— hey;  and  have  an  eye  on  Mactier? 

"  I  guess  you  were  about  right  about  my 
quitting  the  Service.  I  wasn't  fit. 

"After  all,  if  I  hadn't  turned  coward  and 

266 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


lost  my  grip  on  myself,  you'd  have  been  with 
the  Highlanders  at  the  Dargai  Hill,  and 
Gary — 

"  Well,  that  don't  excuse  me.  I  don't  mean 
it  as  an  excuse.  I've  never  been  worth  a  shil- 
ling or  made  anything  of  my  life,  but  I've 
thought  a  lot  of  you — always. 

"  Good-bye, 

"  ROB." 

And  then  Trevelyan  drew  forth  a  clean  sheet 
of  paper  and  stared  hard  at  it.  What  was  there 
to  say  to  Gary! 

He  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink. 

"  My  Love,"  he  wrote,  and  then  stopped 
short,  and  stared  at  the  words.  Then  he 
crumpled  the  sheet  fiercely  in  his  ringers  and 
flung  it  into  the  fire. 

"  My  dear  Gary,"  he  wrote,  trying  again, 
and  then  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  laughed 
harshly.  The  black  letters  stared  back  at  him 
like  small  demons,  grinning  derisively. 

The  third  time  he  started  without  a  heading. 

"  I've  written  to  the  rest,"  it  began,  "  and 
they  will  tell  you  of  my  plans.  To  you,  how- 
ever, I  want  to  say  something  more.  Now, 
that  I  am  writing,  there  seems  little  to  say  to 
you,  and  yet,  I'm  human  enough — if  you  will, 

267 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


coward  enough  still — to  have  you,  at  least, 
know  that  I  have  not  been  altogether  candid 
with  the  others.  I  understand  the  danger.  It 
is  because  of  the  danger  that  I  am  going. 
There's  no  glory  in  it,  and  I  don't  want  any 
fuss,  but  there  are  our  men  in  want — it's  some- 
thing for  the  Service.  You  understand — don't 
you? 

"  I  was  afraid  of  making  you  sad  that  night 
on  the  beach  if  I  told  you,  and  I  selfishly,  too, 
wanted  you  to  myself,  as  you  always  were,  and 
untouched  by  worry.  I  shall  think  of  that 
walk  with  you,  and  the  moonlight  on  your  face, 
and  the  music — !  After  all,  Johnny's  the  only 
fellow  fit  for  you.  You  don't  mind  my  saying 
so — do  you? 

"  The  sea  was  quiet  that  night — as  quiet  as 
you  were,  and  my  heart  was  the  only  tempest- 
uous thing  on  the  beach;  and  your  face,  oh, 
Gary, — your  face! 

"  There's  no  telling,  of  course,  but  I've  a 
queer  notion  I'm  not  coming  back — ever  any 
more,  as  we  used  to  say  as  children ;  but  the  sea 
will  go  on  beating  against  the  crags  here — 
home  on  the  Scottish  coast,  and  perhaps  by  and 
by  you'll  be  able  to  understand  the  song? 

"  I  love  you,  but  I  don't  love  you  as  I  did. 
It's  the  Service,  first,  somehow.  Am  I  build- 
ing up  the  broken  pieces,  do  you  suppose?  It's 
a  job— isn't  it? 

"  But  my  heart  is  breaking  over  this  letter ! 

268 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  There !  I  don't  want  to  make  you  sad. 
There's  nothing  to  be  sad  over.  The  tangle 
is  just  getting  unsnarled ;  and  you  know  there's 
an  end  to  every  thread — 

"  There's  a  big  empty  space  on  the  wall  of 
the  gallery  here.  If  you  would  let  Johnny 
hang  your  picture  there!  If  you'd  give  him 
the  right!  And  the  sword — would  you  mind 
keeping  my  sword? 

"  It's  getting  late.  I  make  an  early  start  to- 
morrow. I  enclose  Mackenzie's  letter.  I  got 
it  less  than  a  week  ago. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you.  I  think  that  is 
all. 

"  ROBERT  TREVELYAN." 


269 


XL 


AFTER  Trevelyan  left,  the  household  in 
Aberdeen  settled  back  again  into  its 
usual  state  of  placidity. 

The  second  day  after  his  departure  was 
threatening,  and  Cameron  and  Maggie  killed 
time  by  pretending  to  play  billiards.  Malcolm 
Stewart  had  driven  into  the  village  in  the  morn- 
ing to  be  gone  all  day ;  his  wife  was  busy  writ- 
ing to  Kenneth,  her  youngest  son,  who  was 
tramping  it  through  Normandy  with  a  couple 
of  old  classmates.  Gary  was  curled  up  in  the 
window  seat  in  the  library,  absently  watching 
McGuire,  the  gardener,  rake  the  path. 

"  Is  the  book  so  absorbing?  " 

Gary  turned  suddenly  and  met  Stewart's 
laughing  eyes. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  you  were  there !  " 

"  So  it  seems.  I've  been  sitting  here  for  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour  watching  you — read !  " 

Gary  flushed. 

270 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  It's  a  stupid  old  story,  anyway,"  she  com- 
plained, tossing  the  book  to  him.  "  What  have 
you  been  doing?  " 

"  Offered  to  help  Tom  and  Maggie  with 
billiards,  but  they  were  so  deuced  ungrateful 
I  left." 

"  You  were  a  wise  man,"  said  Gary,  and  she 
laughed.  Then  she  began  to  drum  on  the 
window.  "  If  you  could  do  anything  you  liked 
what  would  you  do,  just  at  this  minute?  " 

Stewart  twirled  the  book  he  held  indiffer- 
ently. "  I'd  kiss  you,"  he  thought,  but  aloud 
he  said  meekly,  "  I'll  watch  you,  please  ma'am." 

"  Nonsense !  "  answered  Gary,  turning  her 
head  uneasily  and  looking  out  of  the  window 
at  McGuire  again. 

She  stifled  a  yawn. 

"It's  a  lazy  day,  isn't  it?" 

"  You're  sure  it's  the  day  ?  " 

"  Of  course !  What  a  suggestion.  Is  it 
near  lunch  time?  " 

Stewart  nodded. 

"  How  about  a  walk  afterwards,"  he  said. 
"  It's  clearing  and  the  sun's  coming  out.  We 
might  go  to  the  Point  and  watch  it  set,"  he 
added  quickly,  seeing  her  waver. 

271 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Gary  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Truly  ?  You  really  mean  it ;  you'll  take 
me  to  the  Point  at  last?  " 

"You'll  go  then?" 

"  Of  course  I'll  go !  I"',  get  on  a  short  skirt 
this  minute.  See  me  run !  " 

She  jumped  down  from  the  window  seat  like 
a  delighted  child. 

Stewart  caught  at  her  hand  as  she  passed 
and  detained  her. 

"  I  haven't  the  right  to  ask,"  he  said  quickly, 
looking  up  into  her  face  with  his  grave  Scotch 
eyes,  "  but  were  you  thinking  of  Robert  when 
I  spoke  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gary,  not  looking  at  him.  "  I've 
been  thinking  of  him  all  day." 

Stewart  let  her  hand  drop  suddenly,  but  Gary 
made  no  movement  to  be  gone. 

"  I — I  can't  just  tell  you  why,"  she  said, 
pressing  her  hand  tightly  over  the  one  Stewart 
had  held,  and  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  bust 
of  Burns,  "  but  I  feel — somehow,  and  I  sup- 
pose it's  foolish — we — we  won't  see  him  again 
for  a  long  time." 

Stewart  leaned  forward,  looking  up  again 
at  her. 

272 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I  haven't  the  right,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
needn't  answer  me,  but  — is  it  Robert,  Gary  ?  " 

A  long  shaft  of  breaking  sunlight  came 
through  the  window  and  touched  her  shoulders 
and  her  hair.  The  quiet  of  the  room  was  ab- 
solute. She  still  pressed  the  hand  he  had  held 
with  the  other. 

"  It  isn't  Robert,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  lower  than  its  wont,  and  she  did  not  meet 
Stewart's  eyes,  "  I — "  and  then  she  ran  swiftly 
from  the  room. 

She  would  not  meet  his  eyes  all  during  lunch, 
and  she  insisted  on  devoting  herself  to 
Cameron,  much  to  Maggie's  inward  amuse- 
ment. 

"  There's  something  in  the  air,"  Maggie  con- 
fided to  Cameron  after  lunch ;  "  I  just  feel  it 
pricking — like  pins.  It's  something  to  do  with 
John  and  Cary.  Now  what  do  you  suppose  it 
is?" 

She  laughed,  meeting  Cameron's  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  it  is !  "  he  repeated 
banteringly.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know !  " 

"  Johnny's  taking  her  to  the  Point  this  after- 
noon !  " 

Cameron  sighed  heavily. 

273 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Well,  that  means  'good-bye  '  to  Johnny !  " 

Maggie  wheeled  around  suddenly  on  him. 

"What  a  way  to  talk!" 

Cameron  pulled  her  to  him  gently  by  the 
shoulders,  until  he  could  look  down  into  her 
face. 

"  Perhaps — that  is — will  you  go  with  me  to 
the  Point  to-morrow,  Maggie?"  he  asked. 

"Is  it  not  too  late  in  the  year  to  try  the 
Point?"  asked  John's  mother  anxiously,  as 
he  and  Gary  started  out.  "  The  days  are 
shorter  now,  and  then  there  is  the  tide,  and  the 
danger  of  a  mist,  you  know ! " 

Stewart  studied  the  skies  critically. 

"  It  seems  straight  enough,  but,  of  course, 
if  you're  going  to  worry,  Little  Madre — " 

"  Oh,  of  course  not.  I'm  just  foolish.  Go 
along  with  you  both,"  and  she  pushed  them 
gently  away  from  her  with  a  laugh. 

"  We  won't  stay  long  on  the  Point,"  Stewart 
said  when  they  were  well  on  their  way.  "  It 
would  be  a  nasty  thing  to  be  caught  in  a  mist 
out  there." 

Gary  pushed  a  small  stone  along  with  the 
toe  of  her  walking  boot,  and  was  silent.  In- 

274 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


deed  she  scarcely  spoke  all  during  the  walk  to 
the  Point. 

If  he  had  been  at  the  Dargai  Hill,  she  kept 
thinking,  if — he — had! 

She  followed  Stewart  out  to  the  extreme 
end  of  the  peninsula,  and  she  stood  quietly 
listening  as  he  pointed  out  to  her,  how  in  high 
tide  the  waters  met  across  the  narrow  neck  and 
isolated  it  from  the  mainland.  Sometimes,  he 
told  her,  the  waters  swept  across  the  island  so 
left,  and  he  showed  her  where  they  had  come 
up  and  left  their  mark  upon  the  trunks  of  the 
trees. 

And  then  the  spell  of  her  silence  fell  upon 
him  and  they  stood  quiet  and  motionless,  look- 
ing out  to  sea. 

They  waited  so,  for  the  sun  to  sink  slowly 
behind  the  distant  line  of  the  horizon,  and  they 
watched  the  big  white  clouds  change  and 
clothe  themselves  in  the  pink  and  purple  of  the 
coming  sunset,  like  air  nymphs  getting  ready 
for  a  ball.  The  quietness  of  the  day's  death 
was  on  them.  Once  or  twice  they  spoke. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  the  Point,  at  home,"  said 
Gary  once. 

He  smiled. 

275 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  I  knew  it  would,"  he  answered. 

She  sat  down  on  a  big  rock  at  the  end  of  the 
Point  and  looked  up  at  the  changing  clouds. 
He  walked  a  little  way  down  to  the  water's 
edge  and  then  he  came  back  slowly. 

The  vision  of  the  Highlanders  and  the 
Dargai  heights,  that  had  haunted  him  since 
Trevelyan  had  gone,  faded.  There  seemed  to 
be  nothing  in  the  world  that  mattered  except 
her  sitting  there  on  the  big  gray  stone,  with 
the  water  lapping  at  her  feet,  and  the  glow  of 
the  sunset  on  her  face. 

He  watched  her  as  she  looked  toward  the 
sinking  sun,  and  after  it  had  disappeared  he 
stole  up  behind  her  and  stooped  over  her,  call- 
ing her  by  name,  softly,  as  though  afraid  the 
sea  and  pines  would  hear. 

She  looked  up,  and  then  her  eyes  went  back 
quickly  to  the  afterglow. 

The  incoming  tide  lapped  softly  against  the 
rocks  on  the  shore,  and  drew  nearer.  The  pink 
and  purple  of  the  clouds  changed  to  a  delicate 
gray,  that  deepened  as  the  moments  passed; 
and  from  the  sea  there  stole  landward  a  thin 
white  vapor,  as  exquisite  as  a  bride's  veil,  but 
growing  thicker  and  thicker  as  it  came  nearer. 

276 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Stewart,  following  the  direction  of  her  eyes, 
straightened  himself  suddenly  with  the  alert- 
ness that  comes  with  the  consciousness  of 
danger. 

"  It's  the  mist,"  he  said,  briefly.     "  Come." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  when  she 
would  have  drawn  it  away,  he  tightened  his 
hold. 

"  You  need  my  help,"  he  said  sharply. 
"  We've  got  to  get  out  of  this  just  as  quick  as 
we  can ! " 

The  white  vapor,  grown  thicker,  crept  up 
behind  them,  and  Stewart  changed  their  rapid 
pace  into  a  run,  but  the  mist  caught  up  with 
them,  and  by  and  by  surrounded  them  and  hid 
the  sea  behind  them  and  on  either  side,  and  the 
narrow  neck  in  front.  He  urged  her  on  over 
the  two  miles  that  lay  between  them  and  the 
mainland. 

After  awhile  he  felt  her  hold  on  his  arm 
relax. 

"  I— can't — go — so  fast,"  she  panted.  "  I — 
I — "  and  her  voice  trailed  off  and  was  lost  in 
the  heaviness  of  the  mist. 

He  stopped  and  began  to  talk  rapidly,  and 
he  rubbed  her  cold  hands  as  he  spoke.  ' 

277 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  You  must,"  he  said  sternly.  "  We  can't 
stop  here.  Don't  you  know  the  sea  may  cover 
the  peninsula,  and  that  the  tide  is  coming  in, 
and  is  cutting  off  the  neck?  " 

She  nodded. 

"I'll  try  again,  oh,  I  will  try!" 

She  staggered  on — blindly,  clinging  to  him. 
He  could  feel  the  cold,  tense  pressure  of  her 
fingers,  and  it  thrilled  him.  She  could  feel  the 
strong  touch  of  his  hand,  and  it  reassured  her. 
Neither  could  see  the  face  of  the  other. 

And  still  the  tide  crept  in  on  either  side  of 
the  narrow  peninsula.  It  was  the  only  thing 
he  was  conscious  of — except  her  presence  and 
her  danger. 

If  he  could  lead  her  from  out  of  this  mist! 
If  he  could  save  her!  If  he  could  reach  the 
neck  in  time!  His  heart  burnt  within  him, 
and  cried  out  in  passionate  protest  that  he 
seemed  so  powerless — he  who  loved  her  so! 

He  drew  her  hand  closer  and  he  bent  over 
her  for  a  moment,  his  face  near  to  her  own. 
They  could  see  each  other's  faces  so, — faintly. 

"  Dear,"  he  whispered,  and  his  heart  was  in 
his  voice. 

278 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  clung  to  his  hands,  trembling. 

If  he  would  only  tell  her  that  he  loved  her, 
the  waters  might  sweep  over  the  narrow  neck 
before  they  two  reached  it!  But  he  did  not 
speak  again. 

The  land  tapered  off,  leading  to  the  neck, 
and  he  felt  the  ground  grow  moist  beneath  his 
feet.  He  went  forward,  keeping  her  at  arm's 
length,  but  afraid  to  let  go  her  hand,  lest  he 
should  lose  her  in  the  mist.  He  put  down  his 
foot  and  he  could  feel  the  water  creeping  up 
around  his  boot  and  filling  it. 

"  The  tide  is  covering  the  neck,"  he  said 
briefly,  stooping  down  and  unfastening  his 
boots,  after  which  he  stood  upright,  breathing 
deeply,  to  gather  all  his  strength.  Then  he 
came  closer  to  her  and  stooped  and  raised  her 
in  his  arms  and  rose  again,  pressing  forward. 

She  pressed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
struggling,  tried  to  push  herself  free. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Afraid  of  you !  "  and  she  laughed,  but  the 
laugh  was  swallowed  up  in  the  mist. 

"  Then  you  must  let  me  carry  you  across." 

"  What  do  you  think  I  am  ?  "  she  asked 

279 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


fiercely.     "  Let  you  carry  me  with  that  wound 
in  your  back !     I  am  as  strong  as  you !  " 

She  struggled  again  to  free  herself. 

"  Oh,  no,  you're  not,"  he  cried  gladly,  "  and 
you'll  be  safer  so !  " 

"  What  do  I  care  for  safety  when  your  life 
is  in  danger?  We'll  face  it  together.  Let  me 
down  and  you — you — I'll  let  you  lead  me 
through — "  her  voice  broke  in  a  sob. 

The  silence  of  the  years  was  broken  by  her 
sob.  He  let  her  slip  down,  holding  her  closely 
still,  and  then  he  drew  her  face  to  his,  and 
kissed  her. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  whispered,  "  I  love  you," 
and  he  laid  his  cheek  against  her  own,  cold  with 
the  damp  of  the  mist,  and  then  he  drew  her 
nearer  to  the  waters.  "  Come  on,  dear,"  he 
said  brokenly. 

They  could  feel  the  tide  creeping  around 
their  feet,  and  it  came  up  almost  to  the  woman's 
knees.  Still  she  clung,  struggling,  panting,  to 
his  hand,  as  he  led  her  into  the  deeper  waters. 
Once  she  brought  his  hand  that  was  leading 
her  up  to  her  face,  and  he  felt  her  lips  upon  it. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said  clearly,  and  the  words 
pierced  the  mist,  reaching  him. 

280 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Come  on,  dear,"  he  said  again,  and  still 
brokenly,  leading  her  to  where  the  tide  ran 
swiftest. 

The  waters  were  up  to  her  waist,  and  she 
was  chilled  and  benumbed,  and  her  clothes 
dragged  on  her,  and  she  was  weary  with  the 
weariness  of  death,  but  she  did  not  know  it. 
She  still  clung  to  his  hand.  And  then  as  the 
waters  grew  deeper: 

"Will  it  hurt?"  she  asked,  and  when  he 
did  not  answer  her,  "  There!  I  am  not  afraid." 

Her  voice  was  stronger  than  he  had  ever 
heard  it,  and  sweeter ;  but  the  strength  and  the 
sweetness  of  it,  were  like  crushing  weights 
upon  his  heart  and  brain.  She  could  speak  so — 
when  the  waters  were  growing  deeper !  Moist- 
ure not  of  the  mist  or  the  sea  sprang  to  his  face 
and  bathed  it.  And  then  the  agony  her  words 
had  caused — lifted.  She  did  love  him  then; 
loved  him  with  a  deathless  courage.  Let  the 
waters  cover  them,  and  the  mist  draw  the  folds 
of  its  mantle  over  the  level  sea! 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  lifted  his  head, 
breathing  quickly. 

"  The  ground's  higher,"  he  cried.  "  We've 
reached  it — the  mainland !  " 

281 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


She  did  not  call  back  to  him,  but  she  placed 
her  free  hand  over  his  that  held  hers,  and  he 
could  feel  the  added  pressure  of  thanksgiving. 

Little  by  little  they  could  feel  the  waters 
receding.  Now  they  were  down  to  his  knees 
again;  now  they  were  at  his  feet — conquered. 

He  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  he  called  her 
by  name.  She  did  not  answer. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me  ? "  he 
asked,  bending  over  her. 

She  stroked  the  shoulder  of  his  coat  slowly 
with  her  cold,  wet  hand. 

»  i_i_what  must  I  say?  " 

"  What  I  have  been  waiting  all  these  years 
to  hear — what  you  said  a  little  while  ago — that 
you  love  me,"  he  answered,  looking  into  her 
face. 

She  bent  her  head  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  do,"  she  said.  "  I  love  you — "  her  voice 
broke. 

He  waited. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  repeated,  clinging  to  him. 
"  I  have  loved  you  for  months.  I  have  been 
foolish  for  you!  I  have  been  frightened  to 
have  you  out  of  my  sight ;  to  have  you  do  any- 

282 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


thing  when  I  was  not  along  for  fear  you  would 
get  hurt  in  some  way !  I've  imagined  all  kinds 
of  things  that  could  happen  to  you — I  am  so 
foolish — I  love — " 

The  words  came  up  to  him,  choked,  and  he 
had  to  lean  closer  over  her  to  hear. 

She  faltered,  lifting  her  face  from  her  hands. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  dreamed  last  night  you  were  at  the 
Dargai  Hill — that  you  were  killed,  and  I  awoke 
sobbing  in  the  darkness.  I  am — so  foolish. 
I  knew  it  wasn't  true — "  she  turned  her  face 
away  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"And  you  love  me — like  that?"  he  asked 
slowly. 

Behind  them  the  tide  crept  in,  covering  por- 
tions of  the  peninsula  and  all  of  the  narrow 
neck.  Around  them  the  mist  lay  heavy. 

"  But  you  were  not  frightened  a  little  while 
ago  and  you  were  in  danger  then." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  I  was  with  you — we  were  together," 
she  answered  him  simply. 

He  stroked  her  damp  hair,  unconscious  alike 
of  the  tide  and  the  mist,  drinking  in  her  words 
thirstily. 

283 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  Then  it  isn't  Robert !  "  he  said  more  to 
himself  than  to  her. 

"  No,"  she  said  again.  "  I  think  it  has  been 
you  always — and  I  didn't  know  it.  I  think  I 
have  been  waiting  for  you  always.  Robert 
showed  me  that  it  was  you ! " 

He  was  silent,  waiting  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  your  danger  when  you 
were  ill  from  the  wound,  I  mightn't  have  ever 
known.  And  if  you'd  been  at  the  Dargai 
Hill — "  she  stopped  and  stretched  out  her  arms, 
and  put  them  around  his  neck,  and  looked  into 
his  eyes.  "  Oh !  I  couldn't  have  borne  that ! 
I'm  selfish,  but  I  couldn't  have  spared  you  even 
for  the  Service !  " 

The  vision  of  the  desolate  years  he  had 
planned  and  thought  of — the  years  devoid  of 
service — and  the  memory  of  the  useless  uni- 
forms, hidden  away,  and  the  sabres,  useless  too, 
crossed  on  the  wall  at  home,  faded,  and  he  laid 
the  dead  memories  at  her  feet. 

"  This  compensates — "  he  broke  off,  kissing 
her  in  silence. 

After  awhile  he  drew  her  arm  through  his 
and  started  to  walk  slowly. 

284 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  You  must  get  home  and  get  on  dry 
clothes/'  he  said. 

And  he  helped  her  up  the  steep  embank- 
ment and  into  the  road  that  led  home. 

The  tide  reached  its  flood  and  turned.  The 
sea's  low  song  came  to  them  muffled  by  dis- 
tance, and  was  lost  in  the  darkness  behind  them. 
The  heavy  mist  lifted  slowly,  and  through  the 
rifts,  one  by  one,  the  stars  appeared,  peeping 
down  at  them  like  little  children  peeping  from 
the  coverings  of  their  cribs ;  and  by  and  by  the 
moon  stole  from  behind  a  cloud  and  moved 
slowly  between  the  twinkling  stars,  as  a  nurse 
steals  from  behind  a  shadowy  curtain  and 
moves  softly  from  bed  to  bed,  to  see  if  the  chil- 
dren sleep. 

He  led  her  in  silence  through  the  great 
wrought-iron  gates  and  up  the  drive,  toward 
the  lighted  house,  looking  down  into  her  up- 
lifted face  with  his  grave  eyes. 

And  he  kept  looking  at  her  all  during  dinner. 
Once  she  looked  across  at  him — and  smiled. 

Later  she  complained  of  being  tired,  and  she 
rose  to  go  to  bed.  Stewart  lighted  her  candle 
and  waited  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 

285 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


after  the  fine  old  custom  of  his  people.  Not 
even  Malcolm  Stewart,  as  the  elder  host,  ever 
thought  of  lighting  Gary's  candle. 

Stewart  handed  it  to  her  as  she  came  up  to 
the  great  stairway  and  stopped.  To-night  he 
did  not  offer  to  shake  hands. 

She  took  the  candle  and  then  slipped  by  him 
quickly.  He  called  her  back. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  say  '  good-night '  to 
me?"  he  asked,  a  smile  creeping  around  his 
mouth. 

"  Why— yes.     Good-night." 

He  leaned  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
suddenly  grave.  "  I  hope  your  dreams  will 
be  sweet." 

She  sighed — a  sigh  of  happiness,  and  she 
looked  down  at  the  burning  taper  in  her  hand. 

"  Then  they  will  have  to  be  of  you." 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  moment;  after- 
wards she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  burning 
taper  and  looked  into  his. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said  again,  and  she  re- 
peated the  words  over  and  over  as  a  master 
plays  over  and  over  a  bar  of  sweetest  music, 
and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  pressed  her  fin- 

286 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


gers  against  his  cheek.  They  rested  there — 
closely — for  a  minute.  "I  love  you  sol" 

Then  she  gathered  up  her  long  silk  skirts 
and  began  slowly  to  mount  the  stairs,  the  taper 
lifted  carefully  before  her.  She  did  not  look 
back,  but  he  could  see  her  face,  even  in  the 
shadow  of  the  grim  armor,  by  its  light.  And 
on  her  white  face  there  rested  a  perfect  peace. 
Once  a  draught  caught  the  flickering  taper  and 
nearly  extinguished  it.  She  stopped  and,  drop- 
ping her  long  skirts  that  fell  back  upon  the 
oaken  stairs  with  a  silken  rustle,  she  shielded 
the  taper  with  her  hand.  So  would  she  shield 
the  light  of  her  pure  life  and  her  wifehood 
from  the  world's  breath,  he  thought. 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  bannister, 
watching  her  until  she  vanished,  and  he  stood 
there  after  the  soft  silken  rustle  of  her  skirts 
and  her  faint  footfall  were  lost,  staring  at  the 
last  turn  in  the  stairs. 

And  in  western  Scotland,  Trevelyan  sat,  his 
head  bowed  upon  the  letter  he  had  just  fin- 
ished to  Gary. 


287 


XII. 

IT  was  spring  before  Trevelyan  could  push 
forward  into  the  lowland  section,  and 
on  to  the  interior  and  Mackenzie.  The 
reports  of  a  threatened  cholera  scare  had 
reached  down  as  far  as  Patna.  There  were 
Britons  coming  every  day  from  farther  inland 
to  Patna,  grateful  enough  for  the  privilege  of 
having  passed  the  government  line  of  precau- 
tion, and  being  allowed  to  stay  there;  but  a 
British  subject,  who  was  neither  ordered  there 
by  command  of  the  War  or  Colonial  Offices, 
was  another  matter,  and  Trevelyan  was  re- 
garded with  a  blank  curiosity  by  those  who 
knew  his  proposed  destination. 

There  were  a  good  many  technicalities  and 
difficulties  to  be  surmounted,  too,  in  the  ques- 
tion of  getting  inward  as  far  as  the  precaution 
lines,  that  would  have  discouraged  anyone  less 
determined  than  Trevelyan.  It  had  seemed 
simple  enough — to  get  there — after  the  journey 

288 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


had  once  been  begun,  but  the  actual  reaching 
Mackenzie  was  another  matter. 

The  delay,  under  which  he  fretted  inexpress- 
ibly, only  brought  more  serious  accounts  of  the 
spread  of  the  disease.  A  score  of  natives  had 
sickened  and  died — traced  directly  to  the  foul- 
ness of  the  water  used — and  later  there  were 
contradictory  reports  as  to  the  appearance  of 
the  scourge  within  the  barracks.  The  waiting 
days  became  a  torture  to  Trevelyan,  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  scaled  the  wall  of  obstacles, 
and  was  well  on  the  other  side,  pressing  onward 
to  Mackenzie,  that  the  torture  lifted.  The 
fear — half  formed  and  never  acknowledged — 
of  possibly  not  getting  to  Mackenzie,  fell  from 
him  as  mile  after  mile  took  him  further  from 
Patna  and  nearer  to  the  garrison,  and  once  or 
twice  he  laughed  a  little  as  he  kept  picturing 
to  himself  Mackenzie's  surprise  at  this  personal 
answering  of  his  letter. 

There  were  other  pictures  that  would  force 
themselves  on  him  at  this  time,  but  he  fought 
them  from  him  with  a  strength  grown  with 
much  usage.  There  were  pictures  of  Gary's  face 
— white  with  the  whiteness  of  the  moon  upon  it 
and  sweeter  than  the  fairest  flower — there  were 

289 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


pictures  of  home  and  old  Mactier,  mourning 
for  him,  and  visions  of  the  sea  beating  against 
the  high,  gray  crags.  It  seemed  to  him  he 
could  hear  and  see  it  even  then,  inland  as  he 
was,  until  he  would  force  himself  back  to  pres- 
ent things  and  the  desolate  waste  land  through 
which  he  was  journeying;  the  stricken  section 
to  which  he  was  going;  the  cholera  and  Mac- 
kenzie. And  he  would  hold  his  wandering 
thoughts  sternly  in  check,  as  years  ago  he  had 
held  in  check  the  stallion  he  had  conquered  and 
was  wont  to  ride.  And  so  the  day  would  pass 
in  a  desperate  struggle  against  self,  or  his  de- 
sire to  press  onward  to  Mackenzie. 

It  had  needed  all  his  powers  of  eloquence; 
all  his  strategy ;  all  the  hard  discipline  of  repres- 
sion taught  by  the  Woolwich  years,  to  get  him 
so  far  on  his  journey,  and  he  had  thought  with 
a  certain  grim  satisfaction  that  all  the  Wool- 
wich years  were  paying  back  their  debt  to  him, 
at  last. 

It  wac  early  in  the  morning  when  he  reached 
the  small  inland  Station.  His  presence  caused 
a  good  deal  of  comment  among  the  troopers 
he  passed  on  his  way  to  Mackenzie  and  the 
improvised  hospital  that  had  been  erected  a 

290 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


long  distance  from  the  barracks.  The  whole 
thing  was  strange;  the  new  faces  that  he  met; 
the  awful  sense  of  a  growing  horror  that 
brooded  like  a  bird  of  prey  over  the  Station  with 
its  handful  of  men — placed  out  here  by  order 
of  government  officials  far  away  and  safe 
enough  in  London — struggling  against  the 
threatened  devastation  to  the  ranks. 

He  found  Mackenzie  in  the  small  ill-con- 
structed apothecary  shop  and  he  stood  still  a 
minute,  studying  his  friend's  haggard  face  and 
heavy  eyes,  before  the  surgeon  was  aware  of 
his  presence.  Mackenzie  was  weighing  mor- 
phia, and  three  times  Trevelyan  saw  his  hand 
shake  and  spill  the  white  powder  before  he  was 
able  to  divide  it  in  correct  proportions. 

"  Mackenzie,"  he  said  evenly,  not  wishing 
to  startle  him. 

The  surgeon  turned  sharply  and  looked  at 
him.  Then  he  leaned  against  the  table,  his 
back  to  it,  his  hands  gripping  its  edge.  He 
leaned  forward  a  little,  frowning.  He  had  had 
a  hard  night  of  it,  but — 

"  Mackenzie — it's  I — Trevelyan.  Don't  you 
remember  me?  " 

Trevelyan  went  forward. 

291 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Mackenzie's  long,  lean  fingers  suddenly  re- 
laxed their  grip  on  the  edge,  and  he  sat  back 
against  the  table. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  said,  slowly. 

Trevelyan  went  up  and  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  I  got  your  letter  and  it  just  stirred  up  my 
fighting  blood.  I  packed  my  grip — and,  presto ! 
here  I  am." 

Mackenzie  was  silent. 

"  Come ;  haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  a 
chap  who  has  been  traveling  thousands  of  miles 
to  get  here  ?  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

"Glad  to  see  you?  "  Mackenzie  lifted  his  hag- 
gard eyes  from  the  floor  to  Trevelyan's  face, 
"  Glad  to  see  you — in  this  pest  house  ?  You're 
the  maddest  fool  God  ever  made !  " 

Trevelyan  drew  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  said,  "  but  I've  come ; 
and  I've  come  to  stay." 

Mackenzie  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  Trevelyan  could  feel  the  pressure  of  the 
long  thin  fingers  through  his  coat. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  stay  one  hour,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  not — one — hour ;  do  you 

292 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


hear?  There're  new  cases  breaking  out  every 
day;  it's  going  to  play  the  devil!  If  you're 
thinking  of  suicide,  go  back  to  London  and 
blow  your  brains  out,  or  throw  yourself  into 
the  Thames — that's  more  romantic,  still. 
There's  nothing  romantic  about  dying  of  chol- 
era. It  isn't  a  pretty  way  to  die !  "  Mackenzie 
laughed,  harshly. 

Trevelyan  put  his  hand  up  to  his  shoulder 
and  forced  away  Mackenzie's  grip. 

"  I'm  not  hunting  suicide  or  death  either," 
he  said  briefly,  "  and  I'm  not  mad.  I  know 
perfectly  why  I'm  here — and  what  I'm  here  for, 
and  I'm  going  to  stay."  He  paused  a  moment 
and  then  went  on  hurriedly,  forcing  back  the 
tension  in  his  voice.  "  Do  you  think  I've  been 
traveling  and  squandering  money  for  weeks, 
and  '  pulling  strings  '  to  get  here,  and  being  de- 
layed at  Patna,  to  be  turned  back  now  like  a 
whipped  boy  turned  out  of  school  ?  " 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  it's  like — " 

"  I  guess  I'll  find  out  quick  enough.  Look 
at  you — ready  to  drop,  and  then  refusing 
help!" 

Mackenzie  put  his  hand  up  wearily  to  his 
forehead  and  pressed  it  there  tightly.  The 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


lines  cut  by  lack  of  sleep  on  his  haggard  face 
relaxed  a  little. 

"It's  nothing.  I'll  be  all  right  when  I've 
gotten  some  sleep.  You're  not  needed.  There's 
Clarke,  and  the  orderlies — "  he  broke  off. 

"Yes?" 

Mackenzie  bit  his  cheek  and  brought  down 
his  hand  heavily  on  the  table. 

"  I  don't  need  you.     Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  No." 

Mackenzie  turned  and  went  back  to  the  mor- 
phia scales.  Something  in  the  work  he  was 
doing  and  the  way  he  was  doing  it  struck  Tre- 
velyan. 

"  Where's  the  apothecary  ?  "  he  asked  briefly. 

Mackenzie  balanced  the  scales  carefully. 

"  Sick,"  he  said. 

"Where's  Clarke?" 

Mackenzie  added  a  fraction  of  morphia  to 
the  scales. 

"  Sick,"  he  said. 

"  And  the  helpers — the  orderlies  ?  " 

Mackenzie  put  down  the  scales,  suddenly, 
and  stared  at  them. 

"  Half  sick,"  he  said. 

294 


XIII. 

THE  long  days  crept  slowly  by  at  the  Sta- 
tion and  through  the  infected  district, 
as  horses  driven  by  Death,  mercilessly, 
tired  by  their  task,  and  yet  urged  on  continu- 
ally to  break  through  the  breastwork  of  care 
and  precaution  raised  by  Mackenzie  and  Tre- 
velyan,  so  that  the  course  of  their  charioteer 
might  sweep  onward  to  the  outlying  districts 
and  turn  the  scourge,  local  as  yet,  into  a  devas- 
tating epidemic. 

"  Anything  to  keep  the  barracks  clear  of  it," 
Trevelyan  had  thought  and  said,  and  Macken- 
zie, grown  silent  with  the  effort  of  the  fight, 
nodded  without  speaking,  forcing  away  from 
him  the  remembrance  of  the  epidemic  he  him- 
self had  been  through,  and  the  stories  once  told 
him  by  his  father,  who  had  helped  beat  back  the 
scourge  on  the  Ganges  in  '63. 

Each  hour  was  freighted  with  unspeakable 
horrors,  and  Trevelyan  learned  to  know  the 

295 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


course  of  the  disease  almost  as  well  as  Mac- 
kenzie himself.  He  knew  the  first  symptoms; 
he  knew  with  an  instinct  that  rarely  failed,  just 
the  cases  that  were  liable  to  pull  through,  and 
those  that  were  liable  not  to;  he  could  foretell 
the  signs  of  the  collapse,  when  the  face  would 
become  cold  and  gray,  the  finger  tips  and  lips 
and  nose  livid ;  the  eyes  deeply  sunk  and  blood- 
shot with  the  dark  rings  beneath;  the  breath 
without  any  sensible  warmth  when  caught  on 
the  hand;  the  scarcely  audible  beating  of  the 
heart ; — the  apathy  that  was  itself  a  death. 

The  haunting  shadow  of  his  crime  was 
driven  back  and  back  by  the  absorbing  matter 
of  the  hour,  and  even  Gary's  face — moon-kissed 
— seemed  indistinct  and  far  away,  as  he  went 
about  his  tasks.  It  seemed  developed  on  a 
plate,  hidden  in  the  dark  room — the  innermost 
recesses  of  his  soul — to  be  produced  and  wor- 
shipped now  and  then  when  courage  weakened 
and  the  heart  languished  and  grew  sick. 

He  would  recall  it,  at  night  sometimes, 
when  he  had  flung  himself  down  for  a  few 
hours  of  rest,  and  he  would  press  his  fingers 
over  his  eyes  as  though  to  hide  from  sight  the 
memories  of  the  day's  horrors  and  the  day's 

296 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


deaths,  and  the  face  would  come  to  him  then, 
and  his  soul  would  look  upon  it  as  on  some 
dream  of  heaven. 

And  then  the  memory  of  her  face  would 
fade,  and  he  would  let  it  slip  away  from  him, 
as  though  knowing  it  had  no  place  here — • 
midst  the  cholera  scourge,  and  he  would  fall 
off  to  sleep  and  sleep  exhaustedly. 

The  days  held  but  one  purpose,  but  one 
thought — his  service  to  the  men,  and  he  some- 
times wondered  how  even  the  service  of  the 
hour  had  a  power  to  hold  him,  stronger  than 
the  memory  of  her  face. 

In  those  days,  when  each  morning  saw  an- 
other man  added  to  the  inmates  of  the  hospital, 
it  was  all  reality — grim,  terrible  and  as  strong 
as  the  death  he  fought ;  and  he  and  Death  kept 
on  the  fight,  and  even  when  Death  won,  his 
triumph  seemed  petty  and  incomplete  because 
of  this  man's  courage,  which  he  could  neither 
break  nor  bend. 

It  was  when  Death  had  seemingly  withdrawn 
his  presence  a  little  way  that  Mackenzie,  one 
morning  motioned  to  Trevelyan  to  come  out- 
side to  the  entrance  of  the  hospital.  He  spoke 
to  the  point — a  necessity  taught  him  long  ago 

297 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


when  he  had  first  joined  the  army  and  helped 
fight  the  Asiatic  scourge  for  the  men. 

"  Five  cases  have  broken  out  ten  miles  in- 
country.  You  know  what  that  means — a  gen- 
eral mowing  down  and  spread  of  the  disease 
unless  it  is  strangled  right  away !  I  can't  leave 
the  men  here,  or  go  any  distance  from  the  bar- 
racks for  fear — " 

Trevelyan  looked  at  him  squarely  and 
nodded. 

"  Of  course  not,  and  you  want  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Clarke  isn't  fit  yet,  and  I  couldn't  let  him 
go  anyway.  Could  you  go  ?  " 

"  Sure." 

"And  take  charge  of  things?  I'll  send  you 
some  helpers,  and  perhaps  run  over  for  an 
afternoon  later  to  see  how  you're  getting  on." 

"All  right.     When  am  I  to  start?  " 

"  Could  you  go  to-day — now  ?  " 

Trevelyan  brought  his  hand  up  to  his  fore- 
head suddenly  in  the  old  salute,  a  shadow  of  a 
smile  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mackenzie  looked  away  and  stood  silent  a 
moment. 

"It  hardly  seems  as  though  I  could  spare 

298 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


you,"  and  then  quickly,  "  You  understand 
about  the  calomel  and  how  to  use  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  Trevelyan— " 

Trevelyan  stopped  suddenly  as  he  was  walk- 
ing away,  and  turned. 

"Well?" 

"And  just  when  the  morphia's  needed,  and 
when  it's  judicious  to  give  the  opium,  calomel 
and  white  sugar — and  about  the  salt  injec- 
tions in  the  veins  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  Trevelyan—" 

Trevelyan  wheeled  around,  stopping  short 
again.  Mackenzie  was  still  looking  away. 

"Well?" 

"  And,  for  God's  sake,  be  careful !  " 


299 


XIV. 

IT  was  one  thing  to  help  fight  the  scourge 
with  Mackenzie  in  the  military  hospital, 
crude  as  it  was,  where  things  were  car- 
ried on  with  a  certain  nicety  and  regard  to  mili- 
tary discipline  that  was  stronger  than  even 
the  demoralizing  dread  of  the  hour ;  but  it  was 
another  matter  to  fight  it,  and  crush  it,  and 
stamp  it  out,  alone,  in  the  midst  of  half  a  hun- 
dred panic  stricken  natives,  who  knew  neither 
military  discipline  nor  paid  proper  attention 
to  the  precautionary  measures  of  the  disease. 

Trevelyan  had  never  possessed  the  quality 
of  conciliation;  it  had  been  either  one  side  of 
the  line  or  the  other.  He  had  always  reduced 
things  to  their  smallest  denomination  at  once, 
with  no  intermediate  measures.  And  the  qual- 
ity became  now  a  practical  and  living  thing,  as 
he  forced  the  natives  to  bow  before  him  in  obe- 
dience, and  brought  order  out  of  chaos. 

It  was  not  altogether  the  exact  application 

300 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


of  the  military  organization  learned  at  Wool- 
wich, or  the  inspiration  of  the  rally  he  had 
dreamed  of,  that  would  fire  his  men,  he  told 
himself  grimly,  as  he  worked  among  these  peo- 
ple, but  it  answered  for  it,  and  it  brought  them 
into  subjection  to  his  will. 

He  held  them  in  control,  as  the  pilot  holds 
in  control  the  ship  he  steers,  guiding  it 
through  the  madness  of  the  gale,  and  they 
never  dreamed  of  mutiny,  because  they  feared 
him  more  than  they  feared  the  cholera. 

And  by  and  by  when  they  saw  that  he  held 
the  scourge  in  check,  his  hand  upon  its  throat, 
they  fell  down  before  him  in  all  the  pitifulness 
of  ignorance  and  superstition,  as  before  a  being 
mightier  than  they  had  ever  conceived  of, 
worshiping  him.  But  they  were  at  his  feet 
always. 

Mackenzie,  shrewd  and  silent-tongued.  took 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  when  he  rode  over 
for  an  afternoon,  a  fortnight  later,  to  see  how 
Trevelyan  was  getting  on. 

"  He's  the  biggest  man  I  ever  knew,"  .he 
said  to  himself  as  he  followed  the  orderly  who 
was  leading  him  to  Trevelyan. 

He  found  Trevelyan  stooping  over  the  small 

301 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


rigid  figure  of  a  native  baby,  his  hand  still  rest- 
ing on  the  tiny  wrist  where  the  pulse  had  just 
stopped  its  slow  beating. 

Mackenzie  came  in  and  stood  on  the  other 
side  of  the  child,  and  Trevelyan  raised  his  head. 
He  showed  no  surprise  at  Mackenzie  being 
there.  In  his  face  was  all  the  unutterableness 
of  the  horror ;  in  his  voice  was  all  the  passion- 
ate protest,  all  the  crushing  dread,  all  the  grief, 
that  he  had  never  shown  before. 

"  It — is— awful! " 

Mackenzie  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 


302 


XV. 

THREE  weeks  later,  when  it  seemed  as 
though  the  battle  had  been  won,  Trev- 
elyan  got  a  hasty  scrawl  from  Mac- 
kenzie. 

It  had  been  carried  by  a  man  of  the  regi- 
ment, who  had  ridden  the  ten  miles  on  a  dead 
run,  and  now  stood  exhausted  before  Trevel- 
yan,  his  face  twitching  with  the  fright  born 
of  the  tidings  he  had  brought. 

Trevelyan  took  the  note  in  silence  and  he 
looked  hard  at  the  man's  face  before  he  opened 
the  message.  Then  he  bent  his  head  and 
forced  the  paper  open,  still  without  comment. 

"  Eight  cases  broken  out  in  barracks.  If 
you  can  leave — come.  Mackenzie." 

He  crushed  the  note  in  his  hand. 

"  My  respects  to  Dr.  Mackenzie,"  he  said 
quietly,  raising  his  head  and  meeting  the  eyes 
of  the  trooper,  "  and  I  will  be  with  him  to- 
night." 

3°3 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  spent  the  morning  in  arranging  matters 
and  leaving  orders  with  his  chief  helper,  who 
was  to  remain  for  a  time,  more  as  a  precau- 
tionary measure  than  for  anything  else,  and 
then  made  his  own  scant  preparations  in  haste 
to  get  to  Mackenzie  before  nightfall. 

He  had  thought  first  of  slipping  away,  fear- 
ful of  what  the  knowledge  of  his  going  might 
bring,  but  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more 
he  put  the  idea  from  him.  After  all  the  truth 
was  the  wisest. 

He  called  all  those  of  the  half  hundred  na- 
tives together  who  had  been  spared  of  the 
scourge — most  of  whom  he  had  fought  death 
for,  and  he  addressed  them  in  Hindostanee. 
He  spoke  to  them  simply  and  briefly;  he  told 
them  what  they  must  do — not  why  they  must 
do  it,  but  simply  because  he  ordered  them  to, 
and  expected  their  obedience — relying  on  the 
worshipful  fear  with  which  they  regarded  him. 

"  If  I  hear  of  your  disobeying  me — and  I 
shall  hear  it,  for  my  ears  are  long  and  sharp — 
I  shall  come  back  and  I  will  kill  the  dog  who 
dared  to  disobey  my  commands,  and  you  are 
to  obey  and  do  just  what  the  Sahib  I  leave 
here  tells  you  to  do — do  you  understand  ?  " 

3°4 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


A  low  murmuring  of  assent  greeted  him, 
and  one  or  two  of  the  women  held  their  babies 
up  that  they  might  look  upon  the  great  Sahib 
who  was  leaving  them  for  a  time;  who  was 
wise  enough  to  know  ten  miles  off  if  anyone 
disobeyed  him ;  who  was  strong  enough  to  kill 
the  dog  who  tried  to  disobey  his  great  com- 
mands. 

And  the  murmuring  of  their  voices  followed 
him  as  he  rode  away  from  them  later,  and  the 
echo  of  their  "  Sahib!  Sahib!  Sahib! "  haunted 
him,  not  knowing  that  in  the  years  that  lay 
ahead,  the  native  mothers  would  tell  their  ba- 
bies of  the  greatness  of  the  Sahib  who  once 
had  come  to  them. 

The  shadows,  the  children  of  the  sunset,  lay 
thick  upon  the  road,  over  which  he  journeyed 
back  to  Mackenzie,  and  in  the  silence  he  began 
to  think  of  England  and  of  Scotland,  and  of 
Gary. 

He  thought  of  them  all  then,  in  the  pause 
that  came  between  the  struggle  he  had  just 
passed  through  and  the  struggle  that  lay  ahead, 
as  he  had  not  had  the  time  or  peace  to  think  of 
them  since  he  had  left  Patna.  Nor  did  he  try  to 
force  the  thoughts  from  him  as  he  had  done 

3°5 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


on  leaving  Patna,  but  he  went  in  search  of  them 
as  a  father  goes  in  search  of  little  truant  chil- 
dren hiding  in  the  dark,  and  brings  them  back 
and  holds  them  close  with  caresses. 

He  brought  the  vision  of  Mactier  forth  so, 
and  he  went  over  every  familiar  gesture,  every 
tone  of  Mactier's  voice  he  knew;  he  called  up 
the  mother-face  of  his  aunt,  the  soft  pressure 
of  her  hand;  and  he  thought  of  his  uncle  and 
Maggie  and  Kenneth,  and  of  Stewart — linger- 
ingly — and  of  his  father. 

And  then  he  brought  forth  the  picture  plate, 
buried  in  the  dark  room  of  his  soul,  and  he 
thought  of  her;  and  he  thought,  and  thought 
of  her!  He  held  the  dream  picture  up  be- 
tween him  and  the  light  of  the  dying  day,  and 
once  he  put  out  his  hand  slowly  and  it  rested 
lightly  in  the  air,  but  in  his  dream  it  rested 
on  Gary's  head.  Once  he  raised  his  head  sud- 
denly and  sharply,  and  he  breathed  quicker 
than  his  wont.  The  night  shadows  crept  up 
and  peered  into  his  thin,  lined  face  with  the 
dark-circled  eyes;  and  though  he  was  alone 
with  only  the  air  touching  him,  in  his  dream 
his  face  was  close  to  hers. 

306 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


And  back  of  the  dreams  was  the  echo  of  the 
ocean  on  the  crags.  But  the  dreams  and  the 
echo  faded  as  he  came  within  sight  of  the  mili- 
tary hospital,  and  the  thoughts  receded  back 
and  back  into  the  darkness  before  the  new  ne- 
cessity of  the  hour ;  but  the  truant  children  were 
not  lost,  only  hiding  from  him,  and  peering  at 
him  from  the  shadows  and  waiting  for  him  to 
come  and  look  for  them  and  take  them  home. 

He  dismounted,  hardly  conscious  of  the 
greetings  the  men  gave  bim  as  they  crowded 
around  him,  and  he  went  at  once  to  Mackenzie, 
as  an  officer  reporting  for  duty. 

Mackenzie  looked  at  him  sharply  as  he  en- 
tered. The  full  beard  he  had  grown  had 
changed  him,  and  would  have  hidden  the  loss 
of  flesh  and  the  haggard  lines  to  any  other 
than  Mackenzie. 

"  You  don't  look  fit  to  go  on  with  the  job, 
boy,"  he  said  concisely. 

Trevelyan  laughed. 

"  That's  absurd,  don't  you  know  ?  I'm  all 
right." 

"  It's  more  than  you  look — you're  all  pulled 
down!" 

307 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  You're  dreaming !  Tell  me  about  the  bar- 
racks!" 

And  Mackenzie  told  him — briefly. 

All  night  he  and  Mackenzie  and  Clarke 
worked  over  the  new  cases,  resting  by  turns, 
and  in  the  morning  two  other  men  were  brought 
in.  One  was  the  trooper  who  had  borne  the 
summons  to  Trevelyan. 

The  cases  developed  slowly,  and  with  an 
effort  that  had  in  it  something  of  the  super- 
natural, they  kept  it  from  spreading  into  the 
mow  down  of  an  epidemic.  But  the  men  were 
sick — sicker  than  any  had  yet  been,  and  out  of 
the  proportion  stricken,  the  mortality  was 
frightful,  and  Death's  twin  brother,  Fear,  laid 
his  heavy  hand  upon  the  district. 

The  men  were  good,  on  the  whole,  as  to  pre- 
cautionary measures,  for  they  held  Mackenzie 
and  even  Clarke  in  wholesome  awe,  but  they 
regarded  Trevelyan  with  something  greater 
still.  They  were  ashamed  before  him — 
ashamed  to  mention  their  fear,  or  even  think  it, 
as  he  came  and  went  among  them,  silent,  com- 
manding, and  unmoved  by  fear. 

Mackenzie  or  Clarke  could  not  have  spoken 
so  to  them — silently.  They  were  at  their  own 

308 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


business.  They  were  supposed  and  expected 
to  meet  disease  and  death,  daily,  hourly  if  nec- 
essary, and  not  be  afraid.  But  Trevelyan  was 
not  a  surgeon ;  he  had  come  out  to  them  to  serve 
them  in  their  extremity — voluntarily — with- 
out military  command,  and  they  grew  to  think 
of  the  scourge  after  a  while  as  they  would  have 
looked  upon  a  hostile  tribe  to  be  conquered — 
as  an  enemy  to  be  vanquished  for  the  Queen. 

And  as  though  the  lessening  of  their  panic 
was  the  sign  for  the  dying  out  of  the  scourge, 
the  cholera  cases  decreased  as  the  days  wore 
themselves  away. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  desperate  fight 
that  they  had  made  that  Mackenzie  came  in 
one  day  at  dawn,  to  relieve  Trevelyan's  watch 
over  the  half  dozen  cases  in  his  wing  of  the 
hospital.  He  noticed  that  Trevelyan  looked 
oddly  white,  and  that  there  was  a  drawn  ex- 
pression about  his  mouth  and  face. 

"  What  is  it,"  he  asked.  "  Aren't  you  feel- 
ing well  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  what  made  you  ask  ?  " 

"  You  look " 

"It's  the  daylight  and  the  sickly  candle," 
Trevelyan  answered  shortly  as  he  rose  to  leave. 

3°9 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  McHennessy,  here,  has  put  in  a  night  of  it. 
See  you  later." 

Once  outside  in  the  narrow  passage  Trevel- 
yan  leaned  up  stupidly  against  the  wall.  .His 
head  was  hurting  him  violently  and  was  colder 
than  the  hand  he  pressed  against  it,  and  a  sud- 
den deadly  nausea  seized  him.  He  stared  hard 
at  the  wall  opposite  and  made  a  movement  as 
though  to  call  Mackenzie.  Then  he  drew  back 
and  waited.  A  numbness  crept  into  his  legs, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  to  deaden  all  his  power. 
After  awhile  the  seizure  passed  and  he 
stumbled  over  to  the  apothecary's  room,  and  he 
began  to  measure  out  the  old  prescription  of 
the  morphia  and  calomel  and  white  sugar. 
What  was  the  good  of  calling  Mackenzie  when 
Mackenzie  could  do  nothing  more  for  him 
tru.n  he  could  do  for  himself?  Then  he  went 
into  an  empty  room  kept  for  emergency  cases 
at  the  end  of  the  building,  and  flung  himself 
down. 

After  awhile  the  deadly  nausea  returned  and 
he  sat  up  and  crawled  to  his  feet,  and  went  back 
to  the  apothecary's  room  and  measured  out 
the  prescription  again — three  hours  was  the 

310 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


limit  between  doses,  and  his  watch  said  that 
the  three  hours  had  passed.  He  believed  the 
watch  had  lied,  and  that  it  was  thirty  hours 
instead. 

Mackenzie  opened  the  door  and  stood  trans- 
fixed on  the  threshold.  Trevelyan  conscious 
of  the  movement  turned  and  started  violently. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  Mackenzie's 
voice  was  terrible  in  its  hardness. 

Trevelyan  held  up  the  scales  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  and  he  made  an  odd  sound  in  his 
throat  that  was  intended  for  a  laugh. 

"  Measuring  morphia !  What  do  you  sup- 
pose ?  " 

Mackenzie  came  up  close  to  him,  and  his 
horror-stricken  eyes  looked  straight  into  Tre- 
velyan's  sunken  ones. 

"Who  for?" 

Trevelyan  was  silent. 

"Answer  me ! " 

Trevelyan  shook  his  head  piteously,  and  a 
ghastly  pallor  crept  slowly  up  over  his  face 
and  into  the  hollows  of  his  temples  and  his 
cheeks. 

"  You're  ill,  and  you  didn't  call  me ! " 

311 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  What  was  the  good " 

Trevelyan  swayed  forward.  When  he  spoke 
again  there  was  an  apology  in  his  hoarse  voice 
because  he  was  ill. 

"  It's  the  nausea,"  he  said  simply. 


312 


XVI. 

MACKENZIE  went  in  search  of  Clarke. 
"  Drop  everything  and  come  with 
me,"  he  said.  "It's  Trevelyan— 
Trevelyan's  got  the  cholera." 

Clarke  took  a  long  breath.  Then  he  called 
to  two  passing  orderlies. 

Mackenzie  led  the  three  of  them  back  to 
the  apothecary's  shop,  as  a  soldier  would  have 
led  a  squad  of  men  forward  to  meet  an  enemy, 
his  face  hard  with  the  control  he  had  put  upon 
it,  but  it  changed  suddenly  as  they  reached 
Trevelyan  and  picked  him  up  and  bore  him 
down  the  hall.  He  allowed  them  to  do  so  un- 
resistingly, falling  back  into  their  arms  a  dead 
weight.  They  staggered  under  it.  He  made 
no  comment  until  they  reached  the  door  of  the 
surgeons'  room.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  there,"  he  said.  "  Take  me  in  with 
the  men." 

"  But  you'll  be  ever  so  much  more  comfort- 

3*3 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


able  here,"  said  Clarke,  still  breathing  quickly 
under  the  weight  of  his  portion  of  the  burden. 

"  You'd  better  let  us  take  you  in  here,  lad," 
said  Mackenzie,  bending  over  him.  "  You'll 
get  well  twice  as  quick  and  it's  quieter,  and  the 
nausea  will  gass " 

"  It's  the  cholera,"  said  Trevelyan,  in  a  clear 
calm  voice.  "  Take  me  in  with  the  men." 


XVII. 

ALL  day  Mackenzie  sat  by  Trevelyan, 
scarcely  leaving  him,  except  to  make 
his  rounds;  Clarke  and  the  orderlies 
taking  charge  of  the  two  small  wards  and  the 
needs  of  those  there.  And  all  day  Mackenzie 
sat  stoically  looking  off  into  space  or  turning 
to  feel  Trevelyan's  pulse  or  watch  the  change 
of  his  face.  There  was  not  a  shadow  of  a 
change  he  did  not  watch  and  note.  Trevelyan's 
great  form  lay  motionless — deadened  by  mor- 
phia, the  occasional  twitching  of  the  limbs  and 
the  heavy  breathing,  the  only  signs  of  life. 
Now  and  then,  as  the  effect  of  the  morphia 
lifted,  he  would  turn  his  head  restlessly  and 
murmur  incoherent  things,  or  call  for  water, 
and  Mackenzie  would  force  a  teaspoon  ful  at 
a  time  of  the  cool  liquid  between  the  rigid 
lips. 

Once  Trevelyan's  hand  went  up  with  a 
spasmodic  motion  to  his  throat,  and  the  move- 
ment pulled  and  tore  aside  the  covering  across 

3'5 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


his  chest,  and  exposed  to  view  the  white  scar 
on  his  shoulder.  Mackenzie  leaning  over  him 
to  replace  the  covering,  was  attracted  by  the 
sight  of  the  old  wound,  and  he  hesitated  and 
leaned  a  little  nearer,  examining  it. 

A  sudden  death-like  quiet  brooded  over  the 
ward,  and  the  minutes  lengthened  and  still 
Mackenzie  leaned  over  the  unconscious  figure, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  scar.  By  and  by  he 
looked  at  Trevelyan's  gray  and  sunken  and  un- 
conscious face,  and  a  swift  change  passed  over 
his  own  impenetrable  features,  and  he  drew  the 
covering  quickly  over  the  scar,  as  though  he 
were  ashamed. 

Clarke  came  in  and  Mackenzie  straightened 
himself  and  turned  to  meet  him,  his  hand  upon 
the  covering  that  hid  the  scar.  There  was 
something  defiant  in  the  attitude. 

Clarke  came  up  and  stood  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  anything  about  it," 
Mackenzie  answered  shortly. 

"But  his  chances?"  asked  Clarke  after  a 
little.  "  Has  he  got  any  show  ?  " 

"  He's  got  a  damned  bad  case,"  said  Mac- 

316 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


kenzie,  "  and  no  strength  to  fight  it  with.  I 
knew  it  would  be  just  this  way  if  he  ever  got  it 
— he'd  have  it  bad!  There's  nothing  half  way 
about  him ! " 

Clarke  tapped  his  foot  against  the  floor  and 
looked  down  at  it.A 

"  How  he  could  have  loved  some  woman," 
he  said. 

Mackenzie  turned  his  head  slowly  and 
looked  at  Trevelyan.  Once  he  had  seen  a  look 
in  Trevelyan' s  eyes —  When  he  spoke  it  was 
as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud.  "  How  he  loved 
some  woman ! " 

Trevelyan  moved  restlessly  and  opened  his 
eyes,  and  looked  at  Mackenzie  and  Clarke  and 
then  back  to  Mackenzie.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  face  that  led  them  to  suppose  he  had 
heard. 

Mackenzie  leaned  over  him. 

"  How  are  you?  " 

"  Deuced  bad,"  Trevelyan  said  slowly,  and 
then  the  nausea  returned. 

The  man  in  the  next  bed  began  to  moan  a  lit- 
tle. Trevelyan  turned  to  Mackenzie,  a  frown 
upon  his  face,  as  though  he  was  trying  to  place 
the  sound. 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"What  is  it?"  he  asked  "What's  that 
noise  ?  " 

"  It's  McHennessy — you'd  better  let  us 
move  you  into  our  room." 

Trevelyan  shook  his  head. 

"  I  suppose  it's  a  blamed  silly  notion,  but 
I'd  rather  be  with  the  men."  And  then  he 
stretched  out  his  cold  hands  suddenly  and 
grasped  Mackenzie's  convulsively,  "  The  pain," 
he  said. 

Mackenzie  looked  up  at  Clarke  and  nodded 
to  the  question  in  the  other's  eyes. 

Mackenzie  took  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  the  great  beads  off  Trevelyan's  forehead. 
When  Clarke  returned  with  the  morphia,  the 
nausea  had  come  again. 

Trevelyan  waved  Clarke  aside. 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 
"  I  couldn't  keep  it  down  anyway,  and — I — 
don't — want  it !  " 

And  when  he  was  not  to  be  persuaded  Mac- 
kenzie let  him  back  slowly  on  the  pillow. 

All  night  the  nausea  lasted,  but  in  the  early 
morning  there  came  cessation  for  a  time,  and 
Mackenzie  left  Clarke  with  him,  and  went  to 
snatch  a  bit  of  sleep. 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Clarke  watched  by  him  in  silence — dumb 
with  the  terribleness  of  it  all;  dumb  with  his 
own  powerlessness  to  help — and  Trevelyan 
was  grateful  for  the  cessation  and  the  silence. 

When  the  cessation  came  his  thoughts  went 
out  to  Gary,  and  they  drew  the  memory  of  her 
face  to  him.  It  was  in  truth  a  dream  of  heaven 
— and  real,  untouched  by  the  thralldom  of  the 
morphia. 

He  was  growing  weaker — he  could  feel  the 
ebbing  of  his  strength — and  he  did  not  care. 
In  the  morning  he  had  fought  against  it,  as  he 
had  fought  everything  all  his  life — passion- 
ately, but  now  with  the  cessation  and  the 
coming  of  the  dream  face,  he  did  not  care. 

He  clung  to  the  vision  of  the  dream  though, 
fiercely,  as  though  fearing  it  would  escape  him 
and  be  lost  forever.  He  had  loved  her,  and 
he  loved  her  still! 

His  love  for  her  had  been  as  a  mountain 
that  has  been  stripped  in  a  storm  of  its  fairest 
foliage;  that  has  been  wrecked  by  a  great  fire 
which  has  swept  it  of  all  its  rarest  beauty,  leav- 
ing only  the  bareness  of  the  boulders,  but  with- 
standing the  wreck  of  the  storm  and  the  fire. 
So  his  love  had  stood  and  endured  as  a  sample 

3*9 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


of  the  Eternal  Handiwork — a  basis  of  his  life, 
as  is  love  the  basis  of  the  life  of  the  Ever- 
lasting. 

He  was  conscious  of  the  clasp  of  Clarke's 
fingers  on  his  wrist,  and  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  a  frightened  orderly  with  the  intelli- 
gence that  Burns,  in  the  next  ward,  was  worse, 
and  would  he  come  at  once;  and  he  was  dimly 
conscious  of  Clarke's  bending  over  him  and  of 
his  telling  him  to  go  to  Burns,  but  he  still 
clung  to  the  vision  of  the  dream  face.  Des- 
perately he  clung  to  it,  even  when  the  blessed 
cessation  suddenly  ceased,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  he  was  being  engulfed  in  a  great  abyss 
of  unspeakable  agony,  and  he  kept  his  thoughts 
upon  it  as  a  crusader  would  have  kept  his 
dying  thoughts  upon  the  unattainable  quest. 

And  then  he  became  dimly  conscious  of  a 
low  moaning  sound  and  he  lay  still  trying^  to 
place  it,  because  Mackenzie  was  not  there  to 
tell  him  what  it  was,  and  he  had  forgotten 
what  Mackenzie  had  said  it  was,  but  he  still 
tried  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  dream 
face  that  was  growing  faint  and  fainter.  The 
effort  was  a  complete  failure,  and  the  low 
moaning  increased.  He  fixed  it  slowly  as  com- 

320 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


ing  from  the  next  bed.  He  turned  his  head 
toward  it  weakly.  The  incoherent  ravings  be- 
came a  piteous  and  conscious  cry  for  water. 

The  gray  dawn  crept  in  slowly  and  up  to 
the  trooper's  bed,  and  by  its  light  Trevelyan 
could  see  him  turning  his  head  restlessly  from 
side  to  side.  Still  the  cry  for  water  reached 
him. 

It  did  not  seem  to  affect  him  much  at  first, 
or  pierce  the  consciousness  of  pity,  but  it  an- 
noyed him,  and  it  kept  coming  between  him 
and  the  dream  face  he  was  struggling  so  des- 
perately to  hold.  And  then  it  struck  on  him 
suddenly  like  a  blow  and  he  awoke  to  the  man's 
anguish  and  the  man's  need — how  often  he  had 
answered  to  that  need  and  cry  before!  He 
looked  toward  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room 
where  an  orderly  lay  sleeping  from  exhaus- 
tion. The  man  was  half  sick  anyway,  from 
a  recent  attack  of  the  scourge.  He  did  not 
want  to  call  him ;  but  if  he  would  only  awaken 
— if  he  only  would. 

He  waited.  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
corner ;  there  was  no  movement  in  the  hall  that 
would  tell  of  Clarke's  return,  and  the  low  cry 
went  on.  Since  the  day  he  had  joined  Mac- 

32I 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


kenzie  he  had  followed  and  responded  to  that 
cry  as  the  soldier  follows  and  responds  to  the 
first  low  notes  of  the  bugle.  He  pushed  him- 
self over  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  tried  to  sit 
up  but  the  motion  increased  his  agony  and  he 
lay  still.  He  wondered  blindly  if  he  could  do 
it.  Then  he  let  himself  roll  over  the  side  of 
the  bed  and  his  big  frame  fell  with  a  dull  thud 
on  the  rough  boards  of  the  floor.  He  lay  there 
a  second,  but  there  was  no  movement  from  the 
corner.  He  pulled  himself  up,  took  half  a  dozen 
steps  toward  the  water  bucket  in  the  near 
corner,  and  then  the  cramp  came  back  again 
in  his  legs,  and  he  fell  forward,  and  began  to 
creep  toward  it  on  his  hands  and  knees.  The 
dream  face  was  fading  and  being  swallowed  up 
in  a  breaking  crest  of  white  sea  foam,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  man's 
cry  and  his  own  pain. 

He  reached  the  bucket  and  he  dipped  in  the 
glass  that  stood  near  and  filled  it,  and  then  be- 
gan his  slow  journey  to  the  man's  bed.  By  the 
deepening  light  in  the  east  the  man  could  see 
the  great  creeping  figure  approaching,  and  he 
drew  back,  afraid. 

"  It's  only  I,  McHennessy.  I've  got  some 

322 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


water — "  the  voice  trailed  off,  but  the  trooper 
caught  the  word  "  water  "  and  he  struggled  to 
a  reclining  position  and  waited.  The  figure 
moved  so  slowly  and  his  throat  was  a  burning 
sheet  of  flame!  Why  didn't  he  come  faster — 
what  was  the  matter  that  he  didn't  come  faster ; 
and  McHennessy's  blood-shot  eyes  were  riv- 
eted on  the  slowly  moving  figure. 

Trevelyan  reached  him  at  length  and  pulled 
himself  up  with  a  supreme  effort,  with  the  glass 
balanced  very  carefully  in  his  hand.  He  was 
striving — striving  too — after  that  elusive 
dream  face. 

He  leaned  over  McHennessy  with  the  water, 
and  McHennessy  with  a  sigh  of  ecstasy  strug- 
gled up  in  his  bed  and  leaned  forward  to  touch 
his  parched  lips  to  the  glass. 

Trevelyan  brought  it  up  nearer  and  his  hand 
wavered.  He  controlled  it  with  a  great  effort 
of  will  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  glass 
trembled  and  its  contents  were  spilt  over  Mc- 
Hennessy, and  the  glass  crashed  into  shivers 
as  it  fell  to  the  floor  beside  the  bed.  Trevel- 
yan flung  out  his  arms  suddenly,  groping  for 
the  dream  face  that  had  gone. 

The  orderly,  awakened  by  the  crash,  started 

323 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


up  and  ran  over  to  where  Trevelyan  lay  on 
the  floor  by  the  side  of  McHennessy,  who  was 
swearing  over  the  unexpected  bath,  and  as  he 
staggered  beneath  Trevelyan's  weight,  Mac- 
kenzie came  quickly  forward  from  the  threshold 
of  the  door.  Together  they  carried  Trevelyan 
back  to  bed  and  Mackenzie  silently  drew  the 
coverings  over  his  rigid  body  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  the  livid  lips  and  listening  to  the 
slow,  feeble  breathing.  Once  he  picked  up  the 
hand  that  lay  on  the  outside  of  the  covering 
and  examined  it,  and  then  laid  it  back  in  its 
resting  place. 

Clarke  who  had  heard  the  glass  break,  hur- 
ried in  from  the  adjoining  ward.  Mackenzie 
looked  up  as  he  entered. 

"Collapse?"  asked  Clarke  briefly. 

Mackenzie  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"Bring  the  salt — it's  just  a  chance,"  he 
said. 


324 


Trevelyan  lay  on  the  floor. 


XVIII. 

THE  light  deepened  in  the  east  and  the 
sunrise  crept  into  the  ward  of  the 
hospital  and  turned  its  search  light 
curiously  on  the  group  in  the  furthest  corner 
of  the  ward,  and  on  the  still  figure  on  the  bed. 
All  morning  the  sunlight  lingered  around  there 
as  though  it  wanted  to  help  Mackenzie  in  his 
fight,  and  impart  into  the  chill  of  the  rigid 
figure,  some  of  its  own  warmth,  and  when  the 
afternoon  shadows  came  and  drew  it  off,  it  re- 
treated lingeringly,  loath  to  say  "  good-night." 

The  shadows  deepened  and  the  quietness  of 
midnight  fell  over  the  weary  Station  and  the 
outlying  cholera  hospital.  Mackenzie  con- 
tinued to  sit  by  the  bed. 

The  quietness  outside  crept  in  to  meet  the 
silence  of  the  ward,  and  the  night  lamp  cast 
strange  shadows  on  the  wall,  at  which  Mac- 
kenzie stared.  Once  or  twice  he  got  up  and 
visited  the  other  beds  and  leaned  over  the  men. 

325 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Most  were  pulling  through  and  were  sleeping. 
McHennessy  was  drowsy  with  the  morphia. 
Then  Mackenzie  would  go  back  and  sit  down 
again  by  Trevelyan's  bed.  At  midnight, 
Clarke,  with  eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  came  in. 
He  did  not  speak  but  he  looked  down  at  Tre- 
velyan  and  then  up  questionally  to  Mackenzie, 
and  at  the  syringe  and  the  salt  lying  near  by. 

"It  didn't  work,"  said  Mackenzie.  "If 
you'll  listen  to  the  lungs  you'll  know  why — 
pneumonia." 

"  You'd  better  go  and  rest  a  bit.  "  I'll  stay 
— I  won't  leave  him,"  said  Clarke,  blinking 
at  the  light  and  wondering  at  the  quietness  of 
his  own  voice. 

Mackenzie  looked  hard  at  the  flickering 
night  lamp. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.     "I  guess  not." 

After  Clarke  had  gone  back  to  their  room,  the 
surgeon  riveted  his  eyes  on  Trevelyan's  sunken 
face,  and  once  he  put  his  hand  out  quickly  and 
pressed  it  over  the  bloodshot  eyes,  but  the  lids 
opened  again  and  would  not  remain  closed. 
The  slow  labor  of  the  feeble  breathing  went 
on.  The  almost  imperceptible  rise  and  fall  of 
the  great  chest  fascinated  Mackenzie,  and  he 

326 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


found  himself  watching  for  it  feverishly,  hop- 
ing and  yet  dreading  for  it  to  cease. 

While  it  was  still  dark  he  rose  and  went 
over  to  the  window  and  looked  out  fixedly  at 
the  impenetrable  pall  of  blackness  that  lay  over 
the  Station  and  the  hospital.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  heaviness  of  the  blackness  was  over 
all  the  world. 

By  and  by  the  night  pall  lifted  a  little,  and 
a  dull  grayness  crept  into  the  heavens  and 
rested  on  the  station.  He  could  dimly  dis- 
tinguish the  outline  of  some  of  the  military 
buildings.  He  turned  away  and  went  over  to 
the  lamp  that  was  smoking  and  lowered  it. 
From  the  trooper's  bed  came  a  low  moaning. 

He  paused  to  speak  to  him  and  then  he  went 
back  to  Trevelyan,  and  looked  down  at  him, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  great  chest,  watching  for 
its  slow  rise  and  fall.  Somehow  he  could  not 
see  the  rise  and  fall — they  did  not  seem  to  be 
there.  He  bent  over  him  quickly. 

"  Trevelyan !  "  he  called  sharply. 

The  trooper  in  the  next  bed  ceased  moaning 
and  raised  himself  on  his  arm  painfully,  and 
looked  over  to  where  Mackenzie  was  standing. 

Mackenzie  knelt  down  suddenly  on  one  knee, 

327 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


and  his  hand  passed  rapidly  from  Trevelyan's 
forehead  to  his  pulse.  The  trooper  in  the 
next  bed  began  to  moan  again. 

Mackenzie  laid  his  ear  down  quickly  to  the 
heart,  an  expectant  look  upon  his  face.  Then 
he  raised  it  slowly  and  bit  his  lip  and  stared 
hard  through  the  window  to  where  the  bar- 
racks were  defined  against  the  paling  gray- 
ness  of  the  sky. 


328 


XIX. 

THE  sunshine  of  the  early  summer  lay 
heavy  like  a  cloth  of  gold  across  the 
rolling  Scottish  country,  and  Stewart 
turned  away  abruptly  from  its  brightness  and 
stared    down    at    the    floor    of    the    railway 
carriage. 

•  All  night  he  had  lain  awake,  grasping 
fiercely  at  the  bit  of  paper  that  had  summoned 
him  to  the  office  of  the  Secretary  for  India, 
while  his  brain  with  equal  fierceness  refused  to 
accept  the  tidings  which  had  met  him  there. 

He  was  dumbly  grateful,  however,  for  the 
friendship  and  the  kindly  interest  that  had 
led  the  Secretary,  for  his  father's  sake,  to  send 
for  him,  and  for  the  time  that  busy  man  had 
taken,  and  the  consideration  that  had  shielded 
him  from  seeing  the  latest  cholera  reports 
pasted  up  at  the  Office  or  in  the  columns  of  the 
press. 

Some  day  he  would  thank  the  Secretary  as 

329 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


he  should.  Just  now  it  seemed  to  him  his 
brain  had  become  a  burning  blank,  and  that 
the  fire  was  as  unquenchable  as  it  was  mighty, 
forbidding  thought.  Once,  twice,  a  dozen 
times  he  tried  to  picture  Trevelyan  as  he  had 
known  him,  but  Trevelyan's  face  would  not 
come.  He  could  not  recall  one  line  of  it — 
he  could  not  recall  his  voice — his  slightest  ges- 
ture; and  he  vaguely  wondered  if  he  were 
going  mad,  and  when  the  rumble  of  the  iron 
wheels  would  cease. 

He  was  conscious  of  being  grateful  for  the 
stopping  of  the  noise,  when  he  descended 
from  the  carriage,  in  the  early  light  of  the  new 
day,  to  make  his  last  connection  with  the  local. 

The  local  was  late  some  two  hours — it 
seemed  to  him  twenty — and  a  feverish  impa- 
tience came  upon  him  to  reach  home  and  have 
it  over  with.  The  new  faces  around  him  were 
strange  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  There 
was  a  lean  Scotch  collie  that  sniffed  at  his  heels 
and  tried  to  make  friends  with  him,  and  a  small 
Scotch  laddie,  rosy-cheeked  and  freckled,  who 
regarded  him  wonderingly  from  a  safe  dis- 
tance, his  forefinger  in  his  mouth.  Stewart 
noticed  it  was  clean;  he  supposed  it  was  too 

33° 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


early  for  it  to  be  covered  with  the  conventional 
coat  of  dirt.  The  boy  looked  a  little  sleepy 
too.  He  wondered  why  he  felt  so  wide  awake 
himself.  The  collie  licked  at  his  boot.  He 
neither  encouraged  nor  rejected  the  familiarity. 
He  simply  ignored  it.  The  morning  sun  was 
growing  warm,  and  a  bright  patch  of  it 
touched  the  dress  of  the  child.  *  *  * 

The  local  came  around  the  curve  and  he 
got  into  the  carriage,  mechanically  picking  out 
his  usual  seat  near  the  window.  Force  of 
habit  is  strong.  There  was  a  bit  of  rolling 
hillside  and  an  old  kirk  down  by  a  little 
stream  he  always  looked  out  for. 

He  was  alone  and  he  was  glad.  The  train 
jerked  and  backed  a  little  and  then  fairly 
started  on  its  run.  It  passed  the  hillside  and 
the  old  kirk  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  and  the  bit 
of  water  that  for  a  moment  flashed  the  bright- 
ness of  its  sunlit  surface  upon  his  vision,  and 
was  gone.  For  the  first  time  the  landscape 
failed  to  please.  Beyond  the  old  kirk  was  an- 
other slope — a  slope  of  heather,  just  putting 
forth  its  early  pink;  and  though  he  could  not 
see  it  he  knew  that  just  where  the  old  road 
curved  up  to  the  kirk,  the  bracken  grew. 

331 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Then  the  reaction  came  and  his  inertia  broke 
and  the  burning  blank  became  a  sheet  of  mem- 
ory. Trevelyan  had  loved  the  bracken  and  the 
heather  so.  As  a  laddie  he  had  played  among 
them  and  hidden  himself — short  kilts  and  all — 
beneath  their  bloom.  Once  he  had  gotten  lost, 
and  they  had  vainly  searched  for  him,  but 
Stewart  slipping  away  unnoticed,  and  led  by 
unerring  instinct,  had  found  him  fast  asleep 
down  there — his  head  pillowed  on  the  bracken 
and  a  faded  scrap  of  heather  in  his  small  moist 
hand.  And  now  the  bracken  might  bloom  on, 
and  the  sun  might  shine  upon  it  by  day  and  the 
stars  smile  down  upon  the  heather  slope  by 
night,  and  the  mist  rest  upon  it,  turning  it  to  a 
mystical  sheet  of  grayness  and  of  silver — but 
Trevelyan  would  never  walk  across  the  slope 
again,  and  Stewart  leaned  his  head  against  the 
window  and  closed  his  eyes. 

All  night  the  train  had  moved  so  slowly  and 
he  had  dumbly  longed  that  the  iron  wheels 
would  hasten  that  he  might  reach  home  soon; 
and  now  that  the  home  station  in  Aberdeen  was 
nearly  in  sight,  a  sudden  sickness  seized  him 
and  he  prayed  for  a  delay. 

He  had  wired  ahead  for  Sandy  to  meet  him 

332 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


with  the  trap  instead  of  the  cart  in  which  he 
usually  came  for  the  mail.  He  had  sent  the 
message  to  Sandy  instead  of  the  family,  and 
had  bidden  the  Scotchman  be  silent  about  his 
unexpected  return  from  London. 

It  was  a  comfort,  he  reflected,  that  Sandy 
could  be  trusted  to  hold  his  tongue.  He  felt 
he  could  not  bear  to  have  them  meet  him  at 
the  station.  He  could  not  tell  them  there, 
neither  could  he  play  a  part  so  long — until  they 
should  reach  home.  He  was  trusting  to  that 
seven  mile  drive  to  collect  himself.  He  hoped 
Maggie  would  not  come  with  Sandy — as  she 
sometimes  did — to  get  the  mail,  especially  when 
Cameron  was  away.  Well,  he  would  trust  to 
Cameron's  being  there,  and  to  Sandy  now — 

He  remembered  the  mail  and  the  papers 
would  arrive  with  him — he  was  glad  for  that 
in  a  dull  way — if  he  could  only  reach  home 
before  the  papers,  he  had  thought  before  leav- 
ing Waterloo  Station. 

His  father  was  in  Glasgow  with  Kenneth. 
He  could  not  spare  them.  There  would  be 
the  Little  Madre  to  be  told,  and  Maggie  and 
Tom  Cameron,  and  Mactier — poor  old  Mac- 
tier — and  Cary — he  wiped  the  moisture  from 

333 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


his  mouth — and  Trevelyan's  father  lately  re- 
turned from  the  far  East — God  help  him.  God 
help  them  all! 

The  local  stopped.  Through  the  window 
he  could  see  Sandy  waiting  for  him  with  the 
trap  on  the  other  side  of  the  track,  quieting 
the  restless  horses;  Maggie  had  not  come. 

He  got  out — how  he  never  afterwards  re- 
membered— and  he  stored  his  Gladstone  safely 
away  beneath  the  back  seat,  waited  for  the  mail 
bag  to  be  put  in,  and  then  climbed  up  with  a 
nod  to  the  red  headed  Scotchman  and  a  "  how 
are  they  all  ?  "  mechanically  asked. 

The  old  Scotchman  looked  at  him  curiously, 
as  the  child  and  the  collie  had  done,  and  he  was 
distinctly  annoyed  at  being  stared  at. 

The  blacks,  with  their  heads  turned  home- 
ward, made  good  progress  over  the  road — too 
good,  Stewart  thought,  and  once  he  sharply 
bade  Sandy  draw  them  in.  Then  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  impatience  he  inquired  as  to 
Sandy's  daughter,  who  had  been  ill.  Sandy 
answered  the  question  briefly,  realizing  that 
talking  came  amiss  to-day,  and  then  gave  his 
attention  to  checking  the  rapid  pace  of  the 
blacks,  who  were  eager  to  get  home. 

334 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


The  morning  sun  beat  down  upon  them, 
but  it  seemed  to  Stewart  that  he  was  turned  to 
ice  and  that  he  would  never  feel  any  warmth 
again.  The  station  lay  five  miles  or  more  be- 
yond the  point  of  home,  and  when  he  repassed 
the  slope  of  heather  and  the  old  kirk  road 
where  the  bracken  grew,  he  turned  his  eyes 
away.  It  seemed  to  him  he  could  never  look 
upon  or  touch  either  the  bracken  or  the  heather 
again. 

And  the  old  road!  Once  they  used  to 
travel  it  together;  they  had  traveled  it  in  their 
earliest  babyhood  and  again  that  dark  night 
when  Trevelyan  had  been  brought  from  Argyll 
to  make  his  home  with  them — a  little,  lonely, 
motherless  lad  of  ten.  They  had  crossed  the 
old  bridge  so  often;  they  had  crossed  it  to- 
gether that  last  time — the  last  time — and  he 
had  never  known!  He  held  on  fast  to  the 
back  of  the  seat  in  front,  and  moved  his  head  a 
little — restlessly — as  though  it  hurt.  Hence- 
forth there  would  be  no  more  "  togethers." 

Sandy  cleared  his  throat. 

"  There's  naething  wrong,  I  hope,  sir  ?  "  he 
asked  a  little  timidly,  but  unable  to  bear  the 
silence  longer. 

335 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


There  was  no  answer.  They  were  passing 
the  heather  slope  and  speech  was  not.  And 
then  Sandy,  with  an  instinct  not  unusual  in  his 
race  turned  half  around  and  blurted  out : 

"  'Tis  bad  news  ye've  had  from  India, 
sir?" 

Stewart  looked  past  Sandy  to  the  big  fir  that 
marked  the  boundary  line  of  home,  and  nodded ; 
and  then  he  suddenly  dropped  his  eyes  and  ran 
his  finger,  shaking  as  though  with  palsy,  along 
the  patent  leather  strip  that  bound  back  the 
corduroy  of  the  seat. 

."  Mr.  Trevelyan's  ill,"  asserted  Sandy,  un- 
willing to  acknowledge  the  thought  that  came 
to  him  and  which  he  knew  was  true.  "  You're 
going  to  bring  him  back  to  Aberdeen — " 
Sandy  hesitated. 

Stewart  looked  away. 

"Mr.  Trevelyan  will  not  come  back  to  Aber- 
deen, Sandy — "  he  broke  off. 

The  blacks  trotted  briskly  over  the  road  and 
the  warm  sunshine  rested  on  the  meadows  and 
brightened  everything  but  the  big  dark  fir 
ahead.  Somewhere  in  the  copse  near  by  a  bird 
was  singing. 

The  long  home  avenue  was  deserted  except 

336 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


for  McGuire,  who  was  carefully  clipping  in  his 
precise  way  the  border  of  the  walks,  and  Mc- 
Guire leaned  upon  his  shears,  wondering  why 
the  young  master  had  passed  him  with  no  sign 
of  greeting. 

There  was  no  one  else  around.  The  house 
stood  big  and  still  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
deserted  terraces  sloped  away — like  a  vast  piece 
of  greenest  velvet.  Some  of  the  windows 
were  open,  and  from  one  of  the  upstairs  case- 
ments a  white  curtain  was  fluttering  in  the 
breeze.  It  was  his  mother's  room.  A  rest- 
ful quietness  brooded  over  everything. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  hall,  flanked  with 
its  weapons  and  armor  and  paintings,  and  no 
sound  from  the  breakfast  room.  Breakfast,  he 
supposed,  was  long  over.  He  had  had  none 
himself,  but  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  lack. 

Someone  was  coming  down  the  stairs. 
Stewart  paused,  a  sudden  heat  replacing  the 
chill  that  had  possessed  him  until  now.  The 
sound  came  nearer  and  he  recognized  the  halt- 
ing step  of  Trevelyan's  father — Trevelyan's 
father,  who  still  bore  that  scar  from  Inkerman. 


337 


XX. 

TREVELYAN'S    father   stopped   when 
he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Why,  hello,  boy,  when  did  you 
get  back?  Thought  you  were  in  London  for 
a  fortnight." 

"  I  thought  so,  too,  sir,  but  you  see,  I — " 

"  Ho-ho,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  "  His  uncle  laughed. 
"  Well,  I  can't  blame  you.  She  isn't  here, 
though — out  with  Maggie  for  a  walk."  He 
looked  up  quizzically  into  his  nephew's  face, 
and  then  he  looked  away  abruptly.  Robert, 
too,  loved  the  girl. 

"Is  she?"  asked  Stewart  absently,  and  he 
turned  toward  the  library,  conscious  that  in  the 
morning  it  was  deserted,  and  that  he  could  tell 
him  there  without  fear  of  interruption.  "  The 
fact  is,  sir — " 

Trevelyan's  father  stopped  short  and  looked 
his  nephew  over. 

338 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"What  is  it?  What's  the  trouble?"  he 
asked  concisely. 

"Who — with  me,  sir?  Nonsense;  I'm  all 
right." 

"  Was  it  Sir  Archibald  or  that  bit  of  diplo- 
matic work  ?  "  The  old  man  smiled  grimly. 

"  Sir  Archibald !  I'm  dismissed  from  his 
books  long  ago,  sir.  The  diplomatic  work 
promises  well.  By  the  way,  have  you  heard 
the  latest  from  Essex — "  He  sat  down 
easily  on  the  arm  of  a  big  leather  chair  and 
lounged  across  it ;  his  face  in  shadow — .  "  It's 
reported  that  Davidson  is  going  to  raise  that 
dead  and  buried  claim  again." 

"  'A  fool  and  his  money — ' "  said  the  old 
officer,  and  sat  down. 

"  Where's  the  Little  Madre?  " 

"  Out  listeninng  to  Margie's  woes.  If  her 
rheumatism  don't  carry  her  off  soon  I'll  be  in- 
clined to  do  the  job  myself.  Your  mother  is 
turning  into  her  slave !  "  said  his  uncle  testily. 

"  Margie's  rheumatism  isn't  any  worse  than 
Ann  Grafton's  stiff  knee  or  Sam's  lame  back," 
replied  Stewart,  swinging  one  foot  against  the 
side  of  the  chair.  "  Mother  always  has  been  at 
the  mercy  of  the  tenants." 

339 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


How  was  he  to  begin,  he  wondered. 

He  mechanically  commenced  to  pull  off  his 
gloves. 

"  See  here,  John — "  he  glanced  up  quickly 
at  Trevelyan's  father  sitting  in  a  black  walnut 
chair  carved  a  hundred  years  ago,  his  face  shin- 
ing out  weather-beaten  and  grim  from  the  dark 
background,  and  his  voice  more  decided  than 
Stewart  had  ever  heard  it —  "  Why  did  Robert 
leave  the  army  ?  " 

A  glove  dropped  and  lay  at  Stewart's  feet 
unnoticed.  He  moved  restlessly. 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  He  had  served  his 
sub-lieutenancy.  He  got  his  commission — " 

"To  resign  it     Exactly!     Why?" 

"  He  never  liked  the  Army,  sir;  it  was  al- 
ways the  Navy  with  him  from  the  first — " 

"Is  he  with  the  Navy  now?"  The  old 
officer  tapped  the  floor  impatiently  with  his 
heavy  stick.  "  Why  is  he  in  India  doing  an 
orderly's  work  instead  of  in  the  line?" 

"  Did  you  ever  know  Robert  to  stick  to  any- 
thing very  long,  sir  ?  " 

"  Only  one,"  said  the  old  Briton  shortly,  and 
he  thought  of  Gary.  "  You  haven't  answered 
me." 

340 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Stewart  rose,  and  his  tone  was  final. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say." 

Trevelyan's  father  clasped  his  hands  over  the 
knob  of  his  stick,  rested  his  chin  on  them  and 
looked  up  at  Stewart  from  under  his  shaggy 
brows — curiously. 

"  Well — well,  since  you  won't,  you  won't,  I 
suppose!  I'll  have  to  wait  until  Robert  comes 
back—" 

Stewart  wheeled  abruptly  and  went  over  to 
the  east  window. 

"  After  all,  the  boy  is  his  own  master,"  Tre- 
velyan's father  said.  "  He's  whimsical  and 
headstrong,  too — "  he  broke  off —  "  Every- 
thing was  all  straight,  though — his  getting  out, 
I  mean  ? "  The  deep  eyes  peered  anxiously 
from  the  old  officer's  weather-beaten  face. 

Stewart  remained  at  the  window,  looking  at 
the  stretch  of  lawn.  For  the  first  time  since 
his  interview  at  the  Secretary's,  his  voice  was 
broken. 

"  You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  Rob." 

The  old  Briton  drew  a  deep  breath  and  he 
laughed  a  little —  "  After  all,  nothing  else  mat- 
ters !  I  was  sure  of  it ! "  and  then  again,  "  I 
— was — sure — of — it !  " 

341 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


Stewart  began  mechanically  to  count  the 
number  of  rose  bushes  at  the  end  of  the  ter- 
race, and  he  made  a  great  effort  to  steady  his 
voice. 

"  By  the  way,  this  last  idea  of  Robert's — 
this  cholera  business — is  a  risky  thing.  Do 
you  ever  feel  anxious,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  boy's  foolhardy,  but  he's  got  sense —  " 
the  Briton  frowned. 

"  But  even  sense  sometimes " 

The  room  was  still.  A  bit  of  summer  sun- 
light sifted  through  the  oriel  window.  From 
the  distance  crept  in  the  murmur  of  water 
breaking  on  the  sand.  McGuire  was  busy  at 
the  rose  bushes  near  the  terrace  and  the  decided 
"  click  "  of  his  shears  and  the  soft  music  of  the 
sea,  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  quiet 
of  the  room. 

"John!" 

Trevelyan's  father  rose  and  stood  rigid  by 
the  old  carved  chair.  Young  Stewart  turned 
and  leaned  against  the  woodwork.  He  grew 
afraid  and  trembled.  He  could  not  look  upon 
that  face. 

"Robert!  That  is  why  you  have  come 
back?" 

342 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


He  nodded. 

The  sunlight  still  sifted  through  the  win- 
dows and  played  fitfully  around  the  walnut 
carvings  of  the  room  and  touched  for  a  brief 
moment  a  bronze  paper  weight  of  the  Dying 
Gaul.  Someone  standing  in  the  open  case- 
ment window  at  the  south,  stirred  a  little,  and 
then  Gary  came  swiftly  down  the  length  of 
the  long  room.  A  bit  of  heather  from  the 
armful  she  had  gathered  on  the  slope  slipped 
from  the  bunch.  The  rest  she  threw  upon  the 
table  as  she  passed  it,  and  it  lay  there — its  first, 
faint  pink  shining  out  against  the  black  walnut. 
She  went  and  stood  by  Trevelyan's  father,  rest- 
ing her  hand  upon  his  arm^  and  she  looked  up 
into  his  face. 

"  I  left  Maggie — I  came  ahead — I  over- 
heard— "  she  began  disjointedly,  "  Robert — 
the  cholera — Robert — ?"  and  then  as  neither 
of  the  men  spoke,  she  cried,  "  Oh,  sir,  indeed 
it  may  be  a  mistake — sometimes,  you  know  the 
names — " 

Trevelyan's  father  looked  down  at  the  girl, 
and  into  her  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears,  and  on 
the  small  white  hand  on  his  arm  he  placed  his 
own — the  one  that  had  held  the  sabre  at  Inker- 

343 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


man.     It  was  an  old  hand,  thin  and  vividly 
veined,  and  it  trembled. 

"  The  report  was  signed  by  Mackenzie," 
said  Stewart  at  last. 

"  There  is  some  mistake — there  must  be — 
the  letters — "  cried  Gary. 

"  We  will  have  to  wait  for  the  letters, 
child."  Trevelyan's  father  turned  away. 

Stewart  came  up  to  her. 

"  It  was  at  the  India  Office  yesterday — the 
Secretary — after  all — "  he  broke  off. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  but  she 
still  stood  by  Trevelyan's  father.  Suddenly 
she  sat  down  in  the  high  backed  chair  he  had 
occupied,  clinging  to  his  hand,  her  eyes  on  his 
face.  Stewart  went  back  to  the  window. 

"  But  think  what  he  did " 

Trevelyan's  father  looked  down  at  her  again 
and  his  face  twitched. 

"  He  was  always  a  brave  laddie,"  he  said, 
and  his  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Gary  raised  the  hand  she  was  holding  and 
pressed  it  to  her  cheek,  and  she  held  it  there — 
brown  and  thin  and  heavily  veined — against 
the  delicate  texture,  and  caressed  it  in  the  way 
that  women  have. 

344 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


"  He  was  a  great  soul.  I  always  knew 
it!  I — aiways — knew — it — "  she  told  them 
brokenly. 

"  He  was  a  Briton,"  said  the  old  officer  of 
the  Empire.  "  I  didn't  always  understand  him 
— I  blamed  him  for  doing  an  orderly's  work. 
I'm  proud  of  him — but  if  it  had  been  anything 
but  the  cholera — I  saw  it  once  myself  in  Bom- 
bay ;  I  ran  away  from  it — "  he  raised  his  head, 
"  anything  but  that!  But — I'm  proud  of 
him!" 

Stewart  still  stood  by  the  oriel  window  lean- 
ing against  his  arm  flung  over  his  head,  and  he 
was  crying — hardly  and  bitterly  as  a  man  cries. 
The  stillness  of  the  outside  world  increased. 
The  sun  crept  into  the  corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  can't  quite  take  it  in — "  said  the  old  man 
slowly,  looking  past  the  girl  to  a  far-off  field  of 
thistle  and  staring  at  the  purplish  bloom.  "  It's 
hard  to  think  of  Robert — gone !  " 

And  then: 

"  I  can't  think  of  the  rest — the  details — "  he 
clenched  his  hands  fiercely,  "  the  pain — the 
thirst — "  and  his  eyes  came  back  to  Gary. 
"  There !  There !  There's  something  about  it 
all  that  we  can't  understand,  I  fancy,  but  there 

345 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay- 


is  the  honor — that  thing  which  does  not  perish 
with  the  using!  " 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  when  Gary,  half 
fearful  for  him,  would  have  followed,  he  mo- 
tioned her  away,  and  went  out  alone  on  the 
back  terrace. 

Stewart  had  not  moved  from  the  window, 
and  Gary  went  and  stood  beside  him,  gravely 
looking  out  at  the  sunlight  shifting  on  the 
lawn.  She  did  not  say  anything,  but  as  though 
conscious  that  they  were  alone,  he  spoke,  his 
face  still  hidden  on  his  arm. 

"  I  did  it,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  broken  voice 
of  confession.  "  I  did  think  to  help  him  best  by 
making  him  get  away  from  the  old  crowd  and 
the  regiment — but  it  was  because  I  thought  of 
the  Service,  too — and  I  judged  him !  " 

She  waited,  and  she  did  not  speak,  but  she 
slipped  one  of  her  hands  into  the  pocket  of  his 
tweed  coat  and  held  on  to  it. 

"  I  broke  his  life — he  loved  me  better  than 
that — "  he  began. 

"  Do  you  call  a  life  that  ended  so — broken  ?  " 

He  raised  his  face  from  his  arm  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  No — no— I  didn't  mean  that — but  think  of 

346 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


my  judging  him!  All  last  night  it  came  back 
to,  me — I  thought  I  was  going  stark  mad." 
And  he  brushed  away  the  tears  clumsily. 

"It  all  hurts  sol  But,  by  and  by — "  she 
looked  straight  out  of  the  oriel  window,  and 
she  spoke  disjointedly,  and  somehow  she 
thought  of  western  Scotland,  and  his  sword. 
"  I  knew  when  we  got  those  letters  from  Argyll 
— when  I  got  my  letter — Rob  wasn't  coming 
back  to  us." 

Stewart  drew  her  to  him. 

"  Oh !  Gary,  tell  me  that  it  doesn't  mean  to 
you  all — all  that  it  might  have  done!  Lassie 
_tell  me " 

She  smiled  a  little. 

"You  are  foolish,"  she  told  him.  "You 
know  I  love  you,"  and  then  looking  into  his 
eyes — "  It  is  only  you." 

He  hid  his  mouth  against  the  soft  coil  of  her 
hair. 

"  Last  night,  I  was  almost  jealous  of  the 
dead,"  he  whispered,  "  and  then  when  I  passed 
the  heather  fields  to-day — and  the  bracken — " 
his  voice  broke. 

"  I  know,"  she  said  simply.  "  It  is  always  the 
bracken  and  the  heather — and  Rob — isn't  it  ?  " 

347 


The  Potter  and  the  Clay 


From  the  south  window  the  sun  poured  into 
the  room  and  lighted  up  the  heavy  carvings  of 
black  walnut.  The  bit  of  heather  still  lay  upon 
the  floor  and  withered  there.  A  silent  linnet 
perched  itself  upon  the  window  sill. 

Somewhere  from  beyond  the  turn  in  the 
wooded  drive,  Maggie  was  coming  home,  sing- 
ing: 

"  Some  talk  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules, 
Of  Hector  and  Lysander,  •; 

And  such  great  names  as  these ! " 

A  man's  heavy  halting  step  came  from  the 
back  terrace.  In  the  stillness  they  could  hear 
him  mount  the  stairs. 

"  But  of  all  the  world's  great  heroes — 
There's  none  that — " 

i 

Somewhere  upstairs  a  door  closed. 


34? 


Selections  from 

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READY  AUGUST  25,  J90J 


D'ri  and   I 

A  Tale  of  Daring  Deeds  in  the  Second 

War   with   the   British ;     being 

the  Memoirs  of  Colonel 

Ramon  Bell,  U.S.A. 

By  IRVING  BACHELLER,  author  of  "Efaen  Hoi- 
den."  With  six  illustrations  by  F.  C.  YOHN.  12mo, 
cloth,  rough  edges,  gilt  top,  decorated  cover,  $1.50 


FOLLOWING  the  marvellous  success  of  "Eben 
Holden,"  Mr.  Bacheller  gives  to  the  public 
another  stirring  and  delightful  story  of  the  North 
Country  he  loves  so  well.  It  is  a  tale  of  the  days 
when  the  French  emigres,  fleeing  from  the  Reign  of 
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ern counties  of  New  York ;  the  days  when  England 
tried  issue  again  with  the  young  republic,  and  when 
Darius  Olin,  "  quaint,  rugged,  wise,  and  truthful,"  with 
young  Ramon  Bell,  two  types  of  the  men  who  have 
helped  to  make  America,  rode  into  the  Lake  Cham- 
plain  region  to  adventure,  love,  and  danger.  It  is  a 
rare  story  of  Yankee  valor,  Yankee  humor,  and  Yankee 
pluck. 


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Eben    Holden 

A  Tale  of  the  North  Country 

By  IRVING  BACHELLER.     Bound  in  red  silk  cloth, 

decorative  cover,  gilt  top,  rough  edges.    Size,  5  x  7}{. 

Price,  $1.50 

**  I /HE  most  popular  book  in  America. 
Within  eight  months  after  publication 
it  had  reached  its  two  hundred  and  fiftieth 
thousand.  The  most  American  of  recent 
novels,  it  has  indeed  been  hailed  as  the 
long  looked  for  "  American  novel." 

William  Dean  Ho  wells  says  of  if :  "  I  have 
read  '  Eben  Holden  '  with  a  great  joy  in 
its  truth  and  freshness.  You  have  got 
into  your  book  a  kind  of  life  not  in 
literature  before,  and  you  have  got  it 
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wholly  American  story  of  country  and 
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\Vhen   the   Land  was  Young 

Being  the  True  Romance  of  Mistress  Antoinette 
Huguenin  and  Captain  Jack  Middleton 

By  EMILY  LAFAYETTE  McLAWS.    Bound  in  green 

cloth,  illustrated  cover,  gilt  top,  rough  edges.     Seven 
drawings  by  Will  Crawford.     Size,  5x7%.     Price,  $1.50 


A  MONO  the  entertaining  romances  that  are 
•**•  based  upon  the  colonial  days  of  American 
history  this  novel  will  take  rank  as  one  of  the 
most  notable.  It  is  picturesque  in  location,  en- 
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motive;  dramatic  in  method;  virile  in  charac- 
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surprises.  The  hero,  Captain  Middleton,  of 
Charleston  in  the  Carolinas,  is  a  real  man ;  the 
heroine,  Antoinette  Huguenin,  a  beauty  of  King 
Louis'  Court,  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  figures 
in  romance ;  while  Lumulgee,  the  great  war 
chief  of  the  Choctaws,  and  Sir  Henry  Morgan, 
the  Buccaneer  Knight  and  terror  of  the  Spanish 
Main,  divide  the  honors  with  hero  and  heroine. 
The  time  was  full  of  border  wars  between  the 
Spaniards  of  Florida  and  the  English  colonists, 
and  against  this  historical  background  Miss 
McLaws  has  thrown  a  story  that  is  absorbing, 
dramatic,  and  brilliant. 


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A  Carolina    Cavalier 

A     Romance  of  the  Carolinas 

By  GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON 

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Six  drawings  by  C  D.  Williams.    Size,  5x7M«    Price  $J. 50 


A  strong,  delightful  romance  of  Revolu- 
tionary days,  most  characteristic  of  its 
vigorous  author,  George  Gary  Eggleston. 
The  story  is  founded  on  absolute  happenings 
and  certain  old  papers  of  the  historic  Rut- 
ledges  of  Carolina.  As  a  love  story,  it  is 
sweet  and  true  ;  and  as  a  patriotic  novel  it  is 
grand  and  inspiring.  The  historic  setting, 
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instant  success  for  the  book. 

Loufcville  Courier  Journal:  "A  fine  Story  of  ad- 
venture,  teeming  with  life  and  aglow 
with  color." 

Cleveland  World :  "  There  is  action,  plot,  and 
fire.  Love  and  valor  and  loyalty  play  a 
part  that  enhances  one's  respect  for 
human  nature." 

Baltimore  Sun;  "The  story  is  full  of  move- 
ment. It  is  replete  with  ad  venture.  It  is 
saturated  with  love. 


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A  Romance  of  American  Politics 

By  FRANCIS  CHURCHILL  WILLIAMS.    12mo,  $1,50 


*T*HIS  is  a  story  of  the  typical  figure  in  the  shaping  of 
•*•  American  life.  "Jimmy,"  shrewd,  strong,  re- 
sourceful, clean-hearted,  is  vital;  and  the  double  love  story 
which  is  woven  about  him  gives  an  absolutely  true  and 
near  view  of  the  American  boss.  The  revelations  of  politi- 
cal intrigue  —  from  the  governing  of  a  ward  to  the  upset- 
ting of  the  most  sensational  Presidential  Convention  which 
this  country  has  seen  —  are,  as  sketched  in  this  romance, 
of  intense  interest ;  the  scenes  and  characters  in  them  are 
almost  photographic.  But  above  all  of  these  stands  Jimmy 
himself,  unscrupulous  as  a  politician,  honorable  as  a  man 
—  Jimmy,  the  playmate,  the  counselor,  and  the  lover 
of  the  winsome,  clear-eyed  Kate,  the  stanch  friend  of 
herself  and  of  her  son  —  Jimmy,  with  a  straight  word 
always  for  those  who  are  true  to  him,  a  helping  hand 
for  all  who  need  it,  and  a  philosophy  which  is  irresistible. 


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A   Princess   of  the   Hills 

A  Story  of  Italy 

By  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON.  Bound  in  Green 
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Tl  7TRS.  BURTON  HARRISON  is  a  charming  story- 
*^ *•  teller.  Unlike  her  other  novels,  "  A  Princess 
of  the  Hills  "  is  not  a  romance  of  New  York  society, 
nor  of  Colonial  times,  but  is  a  story  of  Italian  life. 
An  American  tourist  retreats  from  a  broken  engage- 
ment at  Venice  to  that  section  of  the  North  Italian 
Alps  known  as  the  Dolomites.  Here  he  encounters 
a  daughter  of  the  soil,  the  last  of  a  noble  race,  but 
now  a  humble  peasant  girl,  —  a  real  princess  of  the 
hills.  The  complications  of  the  situation  ;  the  aroused 
interest  of  the  American ;  the  rival  lovers,  English, 
American,  and  Italian ;  the  fierceness  of  the  feud 
this  love  engenders ;  the  struggle  for  possession  and 
its  unexpected  outcome  and  denouement,  —  are  told 
with  masterly  skill  and  with  an  interest  that  remains 
unflagging  to  the  end. 

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The    Kidnapped 
Millionaires 

A  Story  of  Wall  Street  and  Mexico 

By  FREDERICK  U.  ADAMS.    J2mo,  cloth,  $1,50 


/^VNE  of  the  most  timely  and  startling  stories 
of  the  day.  A  plan  to  form  a  great 
Newspaper  Trust,  evolved  in  the  brain  of  an 
enterprising  special  correspondent,  leads  to  the 
kidnapping  of  certain  leading  Metropolitan  mil- 
lionaires and  marooning  them  luxuriously  on 
a  Mexican  headland;  the  results  —  the  panic 
in  Wall  Street,  the  search  for  the  kidnapped 
millionaires,  their  discovery  and  rescue  are  the 
chief  motives  of  the  story,  which  has  to  do  also 
with  trusts,  syndicates,  newspaper  methods,  and 
all  the  great  monetary  problems  and  financial 
methods  of  the  day.  The  story  is  full  of  adven- 
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prises, while  the  romance  that  develops  in  its 
progress  is  altogether  charming  and  delightful. 

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The  Famous  Pepper  Books 

By  MARGARET  SIDNEY 


The  Adventures  of  Joel  Pepper 

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AS  all  the  world  knows,  the  Peppers  grew  up  long  ago,  but  some  of  the 
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"  A  genuine  child  classic." 

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Phronsie  Pepper 

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THIS  closing  book  of  the  now  world-famous  series  of  the  "  Five  Little 
Pepper  Books"  has  been  enthusiastically  welcomed  by  all  the  boys 
and  girls  of  America  to  whom  the  Five  Little  Peppers  have  been  dear  ever 
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